


Patchwork

by miraeyeteeth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Canon Asexual Character, Compulsory Domesticity, Episode 39, M/M, Martin died, Romantic Comedy deeply interlaced with Horror, Self Harm, Slow Burn, Web!Martin, accidental mind control, but he got better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2019-09-16 10:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 78,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16951992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraeyeteeth/pseuds/miraeyeteeth
Summary: “Martin, you’re not… Er... You didn't die here, did you?”“What? No. No, I died in my flat, actually.”





	1. Chapter 1

“Martin, you’re not… Er... You didn't die here, did you?” Jon asked, before he could help himself. It was a stupid question, and he knew it was a stupid question, but blame it on the stress from the worms’ attack or the pain pulsing from the bloody hole in his leg or the idiotic way that Martin decided to phrase his--

“What? No,” Martin replied, glancing away from the door window to shoot Jon a surprised look. Then he blinked and seemed to stare off into middle distance. “No, I died in my flat, actually.”

Jon’s train of thought came to a grinding halt. “...what?” he repeated. Then he rallied. “That isn’t funny, Martin.”

Martin let out a little huff of a breath, running a hand through his hair. “No, it really isn’t. It was… Well, I mean, I did think it was a bit funny, you know, how everyone accepted that Prentiss just… gave up? Like, like somehow I was so tedious that I just bored her into being left alone, and that was why she was done with me. ...that would have been nice.”

Jon’s mouth had gone dry; he felt the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, a sensation he’d come to associate with the Statements. Not the nonsense ramblings of superstitious idiots, but the… the 'real' ones, the ones that didn’t record to his laptop, the ones that made it feel like he was somehow being watched for the duration of the statement. He swallowed. “What do you mean, Martin?”

“Well, I lied, a bit, with my previous statement. Sorry. I didn’t manage to seal up my flat enough. I… Well, you know what happens, to the victims. It took me about twelve days to die, I think, which I suppose could have been worse, really. I mean, Timothy Hodge was like that for years. I’d like to say I can’t imagine what it would have been like. But I think… I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“But I’ve seen your skin,” Jon said, inanely, like that was the most pressing concern about this situation.

Martin actually blushed, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Ah, yeah. Sorry about that. But you only saw me without trousers, not without a shirt. And… what was in that text Prentiss sent? ‘Stomach problems’? That’s pretty accurate. It’s… Well, you can take a look if you want.” He wrapped his fingers around the hem of his shirt and hiked it up enough to expose his belly.

Martin’s skin was… gone. Not all of it, but it was peppered through with enough holes that Jon was sure that he could have seen through to the other side, if the holes weren’t filled. But they weren't filled with silvery, writhing worms. Instead, the gaps in the flesh were held together with something white and fibrous and wispy.

Jon felt his skin crawl. “What happened?” He asked, unable to stop himself.

Martin let the shirt fall back into place. “I don't really know. I mean, I felt myself die. I felt my heart stop, finally. And then I felt… I felt legs. Thousands of tiny legs, nothing at all like the fleshy squirming of the worms. And I felt something like a net… A web, really, catch me up and pull me back. I woke back up and I don’t know where all the spiders came from, but they made pretty short work of the worms. Or maybe it took me longer to come around than it felt. But after they finished, they spun new webs for me. Keeps me from sounding like a whistle when the wind blows, at least,” Martin said, mouth quirking in a little half smile. Then he blinked, and looked a bit puzzled. “I couldn’t tell you this before. I don’t know why I can now.”

Jon swallowed back a question about where the spiders went afterwards. He didn’t want to know if Martin was a hive for them now, too. Although he had a sinking suspicion he might find out soon. “Why… why are you here?”

Martin blinked. “I said that already, didn’t I? I can’t leave. Not, not even now. I don’t know why. Same reason why you’re still here, probably.”

“No, before. You said that Prentiss was out there, and I can't run, so… what, exactly? I'm... trapped in here with you, now. What are you going to do?”

“What? There isn't really anything to do, is there? I mean, I can't get us out, so- “ The penny finally seemed to drop, and Martin's eyes widened. “Oh! No, Jon, I wouldn't- I'm not- I'm not a monster. Or, or I don't think I am, at least. Maybe I am. ...Probably I am. I mean, people don't come back from the dead, right? But I'm not- I'm not dangerous. I wouldn't hurt you.”

Jon was silent for a moment. “Right,” he eventually said.

“I don't want you to be afraid of me,” Martin said, softly.

Jon didn't reply.

Martin swallowed, and looked back out the door. “Well, I suppose that we've got more pressing things to be concerned about, right now.”

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

* * *

 

"I thought that wall was meant to be solid!” Martin cried, as the smashing sound on the opposite side of the wall continued.

“So did I!” Jon exclaimed. “We don't have any sort of weapon, do we?”

“I mean, I suppose we could use the-”

“Don't say the corkscrew!”

“...okay.”

“Can you, I don't know, fire spiders at them?”

“What?! No! Out of where?!”

“I don't know. I was just asking. Damn. Well, Martin, I suppose this is- “

The wall finally gave way. “Hi, guys!”

“Tim?!”

* * *

 

“Have they found Martin yet?” Jon asked, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that was making itself ever more insistent as the painkillers slowly wore off.

“No, they haven't. I'll contact you and let you know if they do, but right now you've gotten the statements from everyone else and you need to rest,” Elias replied.

“But-”

“We don't know when-” The unspoken _if_ burned in the air between them. “-Martin will turn up. You can question him when he does. Collapsing because you forced yourself to work past exhaustion isn't going to help anyone.”

“... fine.”

Jon slowly made his way home, pretending not to feel the stares of the fellow passengers on the train. He turned over the possibilities again and again in his mind.

He hadn’t told anyone about Martin. He didn’t have any proof, and the last thing he needed was to have to waste his time with a psych evaluation. Raving about how his assistant had been eaten by worms- no, not the worms that attacked them today, he’d been eaten months and months ago and, yes, he still came into work after that, but that’s only because he had been turned into some kind of shambling reanimated husk held together by spiderwebs...

Hell, Jon wasn’t even sure  _he_ believed that nonsense.

Assuming that Martin's… condition wasn't some kind of retroactive hallucination Jon had from being exposed to too much carbon dioxide, Martin would be an idiot to let the ECDC get a hold of him. So maybe he was lying low, until after they went away. That assumed, of course, that Martin was able to think that far ahead, but he'd surprised Jon before.

Or maybe Martin was just dead, for good this time, somewhere down in the tunnels.

Or maybe he was lurking down there, spinning a web of his own down where the cobwebs began. Maybe he would just stay down there, waiting for prey to stumble in.

… whatever it was, Jon had to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Martin is the one who found Gertrude, Jon doesn't know about her yet.


	2. Chapter 2

Jon got home, took several more over-the-counter painkillers than was recommended on the bottle, and attempted to sleep. What little sleep he got was interrupted by nightmares, and every time he woke up gasping, wounds burning, certain that the ECDC had missed one, that the CO2 had failed, that there was still a worm burrowing its way inside him to lay its filthy eggs and devour him from the inside...

Every time he lurched out of bed, turned on the lights, and spent twenty minutes examining every inch of his skin.

Then, in an attempt at seeming at least partly rational and productive in his hourly bouts of night terrors, he would re-apply antiseptic ointment to his wounds. By the time he had gone through half of the tube, he had to admit that he would probably need to buy another one, and that he was utterly failing at any semblance of rationality.

Still, he attempted to sleep for several agonizing hours, until the sun started to peek over the horizon. Then, with no small amount of relief, he snatched up his phone and dialed.

One ring. Two. Then the call was picked up.

“Is there any-” Jon started.

“No, Jon. There have been no new developments. Go back to sleep,” Elias said, flatly. “And don’t think about coming in today. You’re on leave.”

Jon clenched his teeth and ended the call before he said something unprofessional.

Fine. Fine.

He would just have to go when no one would be there to give him idiotic orders.

* * *

Jon stole into the tunnels with a heavy-duty torch, a tape recorder, and several more doses of painkillers. They’d put up plasterboard over the holes already, but the trap door hadn’t been secured yet.

He had thought his initial impressions of the tunnels had been affected by the CO2 and the terror. But the tunnels were just as impossible to navigate and as maddeningly bizarre as he had remembered. He was half-lost and disorientated within minutes. He didn’t even know where to start. At least the worms were gone, cleaned away, though as he progressed further he found the point where the cleaners decided to stop. The carcasses remained still when he crossed the boundary, though he held his breath in trepidation anyway.

A flicker of movement at the corner of his eye had him whirling around, heart hammering.

It was only a spindly little long-legged spider, picking its way daintily between the worms and heading down one branching tunnel, away from Jon.

Every instinct told Jon that he should be going in the opposite direction of that thing.

But if he wanted to find Martin…

Jon took a deep breath and proceeded slowly down the hallway, taking care to inspect the whole of the corridor in long, arching sweeps of his torch. The only cobwebs were a handful of normal-sized things, spun in the far corners between the wall and the ceiling. No giant, shining web laid in wait for him.

Jon reached a bend in the tunnel and peered around it, cautiously. Clear as well, at least until he began down the corridor and the light of the torch fell on a figure huddled off to the side of it. Several small, dark things skittered off of the person and away from the light, and Jon took a hurried step backwards. Martin’s head jerked up, and Jon could have sworn that Martin’s eyes reflected the light from the torch. Or maybe it had just been his glasses.

“Hello?” Martin asked, blinking and shading his eyes from the sudden influx of light. “Who's-- Jon? You're alive?” Martin suddenly shot to his feet; more tiny creatures fell off of him.

Jon took several more hurried steps backwards, belatedly realizing that he did not bring any sort of weapon along. Could he even find his way back quickly, if he had to run?

Martin didn't move, though. He just stood there, staring at Jon. Jon tried very hard not to think that he was staring hungrily.

“You're alive,” Martin repeated. “ God, Jon, I thought…” His gaze trailed down to Jon's bandages, then snapped back up to Jon's face. “You're hurt. Why are you down here? You're hurt! Is- Is Elias making you work? He can't expect you to work in your condition. You should be at home, resting. I'll- I'll go tell Elias that you need more time to recover, and you--”

“Martin!” Jon snapped, cutting him off. He certainly seemed like the same Martin as always, at least. “Elias didn't tell me to go down here. He doesn't know I'm here at all. It's the middle of the night.”

Martin blinked. “You came down here without telling anyone where you were going? Alone? In the middle of the night?!”

“It's not like it's any brighter down here in the daytime,” Jon muttered.

“That's not the point! You can't do things like this, Jon! It's not safe! Why are you even here?”

“I was looking for you!”

That seemed to take some of the wind out of Martin's sails. “What? Why?”

“Because you didn't come out. I didn't know what happened to you, and I'm sick of mysteries.”

“... oh. So, if I give you my statement, will you go home and rest?”

“Yes, okay, fine.”

“For at least a week?”

“Martin…”

“At least a week,” Martin repeated, stubbornly.

“... fine. A week. I promise. Are you happy now?”

“Yes. Thank you. I… Do you want to sit down, first? You look… pretty bad. We- um-” Martin suddenly seemed to realize that they were in a desolate underground tunnel and there were no chairs at hand. “We could go back to the Archives?”

“Do you even know how to get back?”

“Well, I mean… no.”

Which meant that to get to the Archives, Jon would have to lead him back. And he looked like Martin. He acted like Martin. But Jon still didn’t want to turn his back on whatever Martin may have become. “Here is fine.”

“Are- are you sure? You-”

“It's fine, Martin, and the longer you take to give your statement, the longer I am kept away from home and my solemnly-sworn rest.”

“...Yeah, okay,” Martin relented. His eyes trailed down to the tape recorder Jon held in his hand, which was already recording. Jon suspected that it had turned on when he first came across Martin. “Um, Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival- former Archival- current, current Archival Assistant of the Magnus Institute, regarding the attack on the Institute by the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss. Statement begins. I was looking up the background of case… er, 0081709, I think, and then I heard you and Sasha screaming and-”

“We have up to the point where you were separated from us already on tape.”

“Right. ...I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving you behind. I didn’t mean to, it was an accident, but the worms came and I just ran and I thought you were behind me but I left you and Tim-- oh, god, Tim. Did Tim survive?”

“Tim is fine. Sasha, too. And Elias. As far as I know, no people died in the attack.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good. I thought… I thought I’d left you both to die. I tried to find you again, I swear, but I’d gotten so turned around in the tunnels, and shouting didn’t do any good at all, and I--”

“It’s fine, Martin.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry, I’m rambling. Anyway, I got lost in the tunnels. There’s no light at all down here, but I had my torch. Still do, actually. But we’ll get to that. I wandered for a while. It’s a, it’s a maze down here. I don’t know how far the passages go. Maybe miles. I think it must be the old Millbank Prison, like Tim was saying before. I even found some stairs at one point, but I really didn’t want to go down them. I hadn’t seen any worms for a few minutes, and weirdly enough that actually started to worry me, like, if there weren’t any worms then I’d gone too far from the Institute. And there was more dust in those corridors too, and dead rats, even some discarded wine bottles. At one point there was an empty packet of mint imperials--”

“Martin.”

“Sorry. Yeah. Um. I was trying to go back, not that I knew what back even meant down there, and that's when I heard the scream. You… you heard that too, right? It wasn’t just me?”

“I very much wish I hadn’t heard it,” Jon said dryly.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. Anyway, I didn’t know what it meant for sure until I started finding the worm corpses again. Then I knew that Jane Prentiss was dead. She is dead, isn't she?”

“...they told me she was. They said that they burned her body,” Jon replied.

“But you don’t believe them?”

“I didn’t see it. I can’t be sure.”

“Ah. ...Well, the worms were dead. And I started thinking how… how they had finally killed a monster. And how I’m… basically the same as Prentiss, aren’t I? I mean, not with the killing people thing, but in terms of being unnatural. And also I’m apparently in the final stages of infestation and the ECDC would probably quarantine me forever or try to cut me open and I... I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t leave the tunnels. So I… started looking for somewhere to hole up for a little while, at least. I mean, I have a torch, but the batteries don’t last forever and I planned on… turning it off and waiting in the dark, until it felt safer to leave. I would need light to be able to find my way out, when that happened, so I couldn’t just leave it on until it died.

“So at first, my plan was to find a little room to hole up in, you know? Something defensible, though heaven only knows what I planned to defend it with. Or from, for that matter. But you know, the way the tunnels feel. The worms are dead, but there’s still... something here.

“Anyway, initally I thought that was a good idea. But then, I started to feel like if, if I went into a room and turned off the light, that the doorway wouldn’t be there when I turned the light back on. I was just having that thought when I opened the door and found Gertrude’s corpse. She was murdered down here, Jon. I saw her. And after that, I figured I was probably better off just sitting in a hallway instead, so I did that, and I moved away from the sounds that were, I think, nearer to the Archive when I had to. The spiders started--”

“Wait. Gertrude was murdered down here?” Jon said sharply.

“Yes. She… she was shot. Three times in the chest, that I could see. She was in this little square room, no worms, no cobwebs, just her and boxes and boxes of tapes.”

“Tapes?”

“Yes, there must have been dozens, if not hundreds, of them. Still are, I suppose. I should have told the police, I know, but, the whole ‘probably being locked away forever’ thing made me afraid to go out to try to find them. I mean, they know about the whole Prentiss… thing, and they would probably make me get checked for holes and then…”

“You need to take me there.”

“What?”

“To the room where Gertrude is. I need to listen to those tapes.”

“Have you been listening to me? It’s a crime scene, Jon. We can’t just--”

“Yes, it is a crime scene, and if the police find out about it then they will take everything away and I will never be able to access them. We can’t let that happen.”

“That’s not--”

“Martin!”

Martin did not cringe and comply with the shouted demand. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and stared at Jon levelly. “I gave you my statement. You promised that you would go home and rest.”

“This is more important than that.”

“You’re already bleeding through some of your bandages, Jon. You need to stop.”

“No, what I _need_ to do is figure out this bloody mystery before--”

“ _ Go home, Jon. _ ”

The next thing Jon knew, he was standing in the foyer of his apartment, his hand resting on the still-open front door.

A voice was babbling on next to him. “Oh god, oh god, I’m so sorry Jon, please snap out of it, please, I’m sorry. Jon. Jon, please, I don’t know what I did, I didn’t mean to do it, please snap out of it--”

“Martin?” Jon turned his head to see that, yes, it was Martin hovering behind his left shoulder, looking frantic.

Martin inhaled sharply. “Jon? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be? What are you doing here? What… what am I doing here?”

“I don’t know.  I just… I told you to go home and it’s like you… shut off. It's like you weren't Jon anymore. You turned around and marched off without a word. I didn’t even know where you were going.  I thought you were going to try to find Gertrude on your own. You wouldn't say anything. I followed you, because I was worried. Then I got  _ really _ worried when I told you that that wasn’t the right direction to find Gertrude and you didn’t even react. You went right out of the tunnels, didn’t even close the trap door behind you- I did, don’t worry- and then out into the night. Then you took a late-night bus and we ended up here. You just  _ left  _ your tape recorder on the bus when you got out of your seat, like it didn’t matter. I couldn’t get you to respond to anything I said, the whole way here, until now. ...I guess this must be your home.”

“You controlled my mind,” Jon said, only half a question.

Martin winced. “I... think so? I’m really, really sorry. I swear, I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t know I  _ could _ do it. I would have stopped it if I knew how. I’m sorry.”

Jon swallowed. He had memories of doing all those things that Martin described, but they were indistinct, like he was viewing them through smudged glass. Or through a veil of cobwebs. He remembered another time when his body moved without his own will behind it.  _ Mr. Spider wants another guest for dinner… _ “Don’t  _ ever _ do that again,” he finally said, as his hand started to tremble on the doorknob.

“I won’t. I’m really sorry. I… I brought your tape recorder, and torch. Do you want them back?”

“Yes, thank you,” Jon said, letting go of the door and turning around to take the items.

His hand stopped before it crossed the threshold of the apartment.

Jon stared down at his immobile hand. He tried the other one. The same- he couldn’t go out into the hallway. He couldn’t cross the threshold. It wasn’t like there was a wall- his muscles simply refused to continue any movements beyond the boundary.  “I think… I think I’m going to be stuck here for a week,” Jon remarked, more calmly than he felt.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin looked confused. “Stuck? What do you mean? You- you don't have to abide by that stupid promise, Jon. I mean, I still think you should rest, but I don't want to- to hold anything over your head.”

“Well, then it looks like neither of us is getting a choice in the matter. Whatever happened, whatever you did to me, it isn't done. I can't leave.” Jon clasped his forearms with his hands in an attempt to stay the trembling that was starting to make a return.

“You- you can't? But it's…” Martin reached out, tentatively, and passed his hand through the doorway. “There isn't anything here, Jon.”

“Be that as it may, apparently my limbs disagree. …Frankly, I suspect that I wouldn't even be allowed to try to get a running start from the far end of the entranceway.”

“Oh. Oh, it's a compulsion, you mean.”

Jon sighed. “ Yes, Martin.”

“I'm… I'm so sorry about this, Jon. I…god, I  _ trapped _ you in your apartment.”

Jon let out a cracked bark of a laugh. “Yes, well, so long as you don’t cut the power and devour my innards, you’re still doing better than Prentiss.”

Martin didn’t say anything, but the colour drained out of his face and he suddenly looked very ill.

“...sorry. Sorry, that was a stupid joke. I’m still a bit… stressed.” The trembling was in fact starting to spread from his hands to the rest of him. He  _ seemed _ like he was in control of his body right now, involuntary reactions notwithstanding. But it was hard to take any comfort in that when the open, utterly unreachable doorway in front of him was a constant reminder that whatever threads Martin had woven into his mind weren't gone, that at any moment they might jerk his limbs like a puppet and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to resist. “Forget I said anything.”

Martin shivered, looking down and away for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and looked back up at Jon. “Okay. So, you can’t leave by your own volition, right? What if I carried you over the thr- uh, what if I just carried you outside of the apartment?”

Jon reflexively scuttled sideways, putting the entrance hall table between him and Martin. “Don't. Don’t touch me.”

“Oh. ...right. Right, sorry, that makes sense. Um, maybe we can get someone else to do it? I bet that Tim would help if we asked. We might have to wait a few hours for him to wake up, but...”

Jon shook his head. “No. No, I don’t want anyone else to know about this. And more importantly, we don’t know what might happen if I try to subvert the rules of this arrangement. I very well might be compelled to immediately return if something external does move me outside. And that’s assuming that there isn’t some kind of horrific penalty that will be triggered if I violate the terms of the… contract. As much as I hate to admit it, just... waiting for a week to see if it wears off is the best option. I can always try to exploit loopholes later, if need be.”

“I mean, I- I don’t think that it would do anything bad to you if you got out...”

“You didn’t think that you would be able to strip my free will from me with a word, either. I’m not inclined to trust your knowledge on this subject.”

Martin winced. “...yeah, okay. Um, is there anything I can do? Do you have enough food? I could go buy-- Wait. What if there’s a fire?”

“I’m sorry?”

“A fire. In the building. You can’t leave.”

“Ah. …I’m sure it will be fine. The building hasn’t burned down yet.”

“Really? So you’re not going to try to break the… the spell because of some unspecified potential horror, but you’re perfectly content to ignore the risk of an inescapable burning building?” Martin demanded incredulously.

“What else do you expect me to do about it?!” Jon snapped.

“I… Well, I mean, theoretically, I could probably, um, order you to leave. In an emergency.”

“You told me you wouldn’t do that again,” Jon said, coldly.

“And I won’t! But, but that would be an extenuating circumstance. I know, I know it’s an awful thing, but are you really saying you'd rather be burned alive?”

“No, I'm not saying that. …I'd almost certainly die of smoke inhalation before the fire had the chance to do it.”

“Jon!”

A loud banging made them both flinch and turn their attention to the opposite side of the corridor.

“Ey, keep it down!” someone shouted from behind their door.

“Oh, sorry!” Martin replied.

Jon closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. Nothing for it. “...come in, Martin.”

Martin whirled back around, looking surprised. “What? Really?”

“Yes. We can’t continue to shout at each other in the corridor, and you aren’t just going to leave, are you?”

“Well, no.”

“Then, in the interest of not having you camp out in the corridor or lurking on my fire escape, come in.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the state of the place.”

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad. You haven’t nailed meat to the walls, have you?”

Jon almost smiled. He must be more tired than he thought. “No, I have not.” He took a few steps back from the doorway, to leave room for Martin. His stomach still clenched a bit at the thought of turning his back on Martin, but it wasn’t as though he hadn’t been vulnerable and insensate in the tunnels, where there had been considerably fewer witnesses. It wasn’t as though Martin couldn’t just say a word and render him helpless for any number of horrors. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t already trapped...

This line of thought wasn’t helping at all. Jon shook his head and walked into the sitting room. Martin followed him, and abruptly seemed to remember he was still clutching Jon’s tape recorder and torch. “Um, where do you want…?”

“Just leave them on the table,” Jon replied, gesturing vaguely in that direction. Fatigue was starting to gnaw on his bones in the wake of the sick rush of adrenaline from before, and he sank into the recliner and rested his head in his hands. His legs were aching; he may not be able to remember walking out of the tunnels very well, but his limbs clearly seemed to have no such issue.

There was a soft clatter as the objects were set down. “I'd… offer to make you some tea, but I really think that you could use some sleep, first.”

“No, because first I need to convince you that I will be perfectly fine without you hovering over me,” Jon mumbled.

“Well, that isn’t going to happen. How about you get some rest first and try shouting at me more after the sun rises?”

“And just what are you going to do in the interim?”

“I, um, I could take the sofa? And, hm. One second,” Martin’s footsteps moved away, and there was a short scraping sound from around Jon’s kitchen.

Jon lifted his head to see Martin carry one of his dining chairs across the sitting room and put it down near the toilet door, looking at it appraisingly.

“Yeah, you should be able to jam this under the doorknob from the inside. That way I won’t be able to get in, if, if you’re worried about that.”

“That’s the lavatory. The bedroom is the other one.”

“Oh. Well, the door’s the same, so it should still work. Do you need anything else?”

_ Yes, can you pop down and bring me back all of Gertrude’s tapes?  _ “...No, I suppose not.” He should be protesting this more, really. He shouldn’t just let… whatever Martin was stay in his home, especially not while he slept. A chair under a doorknob was a laughable barrier to something that could just tell him to remove it and have him obey. Maybe that wouldn’t even wake Jon up.

But he was exhausted, and in pain, and there was nothing he could do to force Martin to leave, anyway.

More importantly, Martin knew that Gertrude had been murdered in the tunnels, and where her body and the tapes were. If Martin left, he would have a week-long head start in disappearing to... wherever it was that the things like Michael and Prentiss went when they weren’t claiming victims. It might be impossible able to track him back down if that happened. And even if Martin didn’t vanish, he still might go to the police and ruin everything.

Jon just had to talk Martin into revealing the location of the body and not reporting the murder, at least not until after Jon could access the tapes. Without having his free will completely stolen, or being trapped in cobwebs while his liquefied insides were siphoned out to feed a hungry spider. Simple.

“I’m going to bed,” Jon said, forcing himself back to his feet. He swayed, and a flash of movement caught his eye. Martin had taken a step towards him, reaching out, before jerking his hand back. Jon steadied himself on the arm of the recliner and made his way to his bedroom door.

He made a detour to fetch the chair. Pointless, maybe. But Jon felt that he was entitled to at least an illusion of safety in his own home.

“The linen closet is across from the lavatory,” Jon muttered, as he pushed open his bedroom door and dragged the chair inside.

“Okay. Thanks. Sleep well,” Martin said, and Jon closed the door.

He jammed the chair under the doorknob. A moment later, he remembered the spiders on Martin in the tunnels. He hadn’t seen any spiders on Martin since he’d gotten back to the apartment, but he’d been very preoccupied...

Jon shivered and fetched a towel from the en suite to tuck under the door and seal up the crack. He felt obscurely better, afterwards. A victory for the placebo effect.

Jon took more painkillers. At this point, he suspected that he would not live long enough to need to concern himself with potential future liver damage.

He did not, in fact, sleep well. Which came as something of a relief.


	4. Chapter 4

Jon laid awake, listening as Martin shuffled around in his apartment. The sounds had the particular quality that occurs when someone is trying very hard to be unobtrusive to the other people in the home. Slow, careful footfalls, followed by the click of the linen closet opening. Soft, indistinct noises of bedding being pulled free and shifted to the sofa. More tiptoed footsteps, and the louder creak of his kitchen cupboard door being pulled open. A slower, guiltier creak as it was closed. The tap running. Martin hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since Prentiss had attacked, had he? Jon hadn’t thought of that.

He contemplated telling Martin to help himself to whatever was currently in the pantry. He certainly didn’t want Martin to be hungry while he was in Jon’s home.

Did Martin even need to eat, anymore? If his account of what Prentiss’ worms had done to him was accurate, then he likely did not have much in the way of a digestive system any more.

Or, if Jon’s luck was consistent with the current trend, Martin just may have a very  _ different _ digestive system now.

Jon tried to remember if he had seen Martin eating anything, since he had returned to the Archives. Nothing came to mind, but he hadn’t been keeping meticulous track of his assistants’ eating habits. He was sure he had seen takeout containers in the trash in the break room; had they come from Martin?

As far as he knew, no one had gone missing from the Institute since Martin started living in there. But it would have been reckless, to take victims from the same location that he stayed in, not to mention from people who would be most likely to consider the idea that a missing colleague might actually be the result of a monster. If Martin had been eating people, and if he had the capacity for any foresight at all, then he would have been finding victims that were easier to conceal, harder to trace back to him.

That would mean going outside at night, most likely. Would Martin have done that, when Prentiss was stalking the Institute? Jon had certainly done his utmost to avoid entering and leaving the Institute after dark during that period. And Martin had acted as though he was even more afraid of Prentiss than Jon was. Had he been lying about that?

The idea was a chilling one. Martin’s terror had been very convincing. What else could he be lying about?

Jon thought about how Martin had protested when Jon had demanded to be shown to Gertrude. How he had acted, to prevent Jon from finding her. 

...Was Gertrude even in the tunnels? Had she really been shot?

It would be a very convenient lie, wouldn’t it? A potentially perfect solution to a mystery that had been taunting Jon since the nature of the Archives had been made clear. One that had such a… human cause, something that would make Jon question the motives of everyone working in the Institute. What better bait could there be for someone like him? What other information would be so likely to make him follow Martin deep into the dark and twisting corridors?

But, no. That made no sense. If that was the case, why would Martin have resisted when Jon had already done his best to fling himself headfirst into that trap? If he wanted Jon eager to follow him, then he already had that opportunity.

Unless he still had more of the web to spin? Perhaps Martin needed more time to set everything in motion.

A week, perhaps?

But if Martin had plans to implement in the tunnels, why would he be so adamant on staying near Jon? Jon was already trapped. He didn’t need a prison warden to keep him in line.

Were Martin’s powers reliant on proximity? Perhaps the sway he held would break, if he moved too far away.

But it still didn’t make sense, unless there were others who would carry out the preparations while Martin kept Jon under control. Jon didn’t think that Martin had co-conspirators. There was no indication of their existence, unless it was the spiders themselves. Which wasn’t impossible…

Jon tossed and turned, questions and suspicions and an utter lack of answers whirling in his mind.

He slept fitfully, drifting off and snapping back awake when he swore he felt the creeping of tiny legs on his skin, or the squirming of worms in his flesh. After the third time he lurched out of the bed to snap on the light and search his skin and the bedsheets and the panic subsided again, Jon realized he heard something from the sitting room.

It was muffled by the door, but Martin was snoring.

It was a grounding sound. Human. A reminder that Jon wasn’t alone, and even if Martin wasn’t human now, he still retained enough humanity that he still slept, and even snored while he was stretched out on Jon’s sofa, a few feet away.

Jon let out a shuddering exhale and glanced over towards the door. The chair was in place still; the towel undisturbed by any skittering arachnids. He felt the knot in his stomach ease a little.

He flicked the lights back off and pulled the sheets up around him once more. This time, the exhaustion won before his paranoia had a chance to gain much momentum, and he slipped into sleep.

* * *

Jon slowly drifted back to wakefulness, stirring in his bed and flinching when his eyelids lifted and sunlight stabbed into his eyes. This was followed by the sensation of his wounds throbbing and his muscles aching, and then by the smell of cooking eggs.

Right, the attack, and the tunnels, and… where did the eggs come from?

Jon sat up, hissing at the aches in his body. His door was blocked with a chair.

Oh, right. Martin was here. That explained the smell of breakfast. The very welcome smell of breakfast, judging from the way his stomach growled at him.

More cautiously than his hunger was happy with, he removed the chair and pulled a corner of the towel free, half-expecting spiders to immediately come flowing through the gap. Nothing.

He let out a breath he hadn’t been fully aware of holding, and pulled the door open.

His sitting room looked much the same as it always had. There were no masses of cobwebs lurking in the corners or over his ceiling. The only real difference were the sheets and pillow that had been carefully folded and placed on the arm of the sofa, and a shopping bag left on the table, next to Jon’s tape recorder and torch.

“Oh, good morning!” Martin called from the kitchen. “I’d ask you how you like your eggs, but I’m afraid I only really know how to make scrambled. Do you want some anyway? I also got some bread and butter and marmalade, if you prefer.”

Jon made his way out into the main area of the apartment. “Did you go out?”

“Ah, yeah. Only for a few minutes, though! I checked for the closest grocery near here, and I figured it was close enough that I could probably make it back here in time if I saw any smoke. I borrowed your keys for a bit. Sorry. You didn’t have much in the way of food in the refrigerator.”

“...I’ve been a bit busy of late.”

“Oh, I wasn’t saying it to be judgemental! I didn’t mean to come across like I was. I mean, I haven’t really gone back to my place since Pren-- since I moved into the Archives. I don’t want to know what sort of a state my refrigerator must be in!”

Jon wasn’t sure what to say in response to that.

“Um, anyway. I also got another first aid kit, because I’m not sure what kind of supplies you have and I figured you might need some more bandages or something,” Martin babbled as he started scooping scrambled eggs from the pan onto two plates.

“I am fairly well equipped. But thank you.”

“It’s nothing! I mean, kind of the least I can do.” Martin set the plates on the table, along with two sets of cutlery. “Um, did you want the scrambled eggs?”

“I… Yes, I do.”

Martin smiled at him, then scurried back into the kitchen to pour out two mugs of steaming tea. Jon eased himself into the chair. He picked up the knife and fork, but waited until after Martin had set the tea down, settled into his own chair, and taken a bite of the eggs before he turned his attention to his own food. Well, it answered the question of if Martin ate food, at least.

...but spiders also laid eggs, didn’t they?

Jon swallowed thickly and cut the eggs into fine yellow crumbs first, peering at the sliced edges for sign of anything other than chicken egg in the mass.

There weren’t any signs of tiny round spider eggs nestled in the scrambled ones, or none that Jon could see. So he tentatively took a bite.

It was good, even though it was now cold and mangled after Jon’s inspection. Or maybe Jon was just starving, since he hadn’t eaten since before going into the tunnels. He finished the plate quickly.

Martin glanced at him, his own empty plate pushed away and the mug of tea clasped in his hands. “It’s all right, then?”

Jon set his cutlery down. “Yes. Thank you, I think I needed that.”

“Mmn. I thought so; I remember the way you used to forget to eat, after being down in the Archives for hours. Didn’t think you’d had much food when you were occupied with looking for me.”

Jon took his own mug, mostly for an excuse to look away from Martin. “No, I didn’t. But you didn’t have anything since Prentiss’ attack, did you? I’m… sorry, I should have offered you something last night. I’m afraid I’m not a very good host.”

“I- I mean, this isn’t exactly a standard guest scenario. And… and people have told me about how I can probably stand to miss a few meals, anyway, so…”

Jon jerked his head up. “They what?!”

“I mean, I’m aware I’m not the smallest guy...”

“That’s no bloody excuse for them to talk to you like that!” Jon snapped. “It’s none of their damn business, and you’re fine the way you are!”

Martin blinked at him, apparently speechless.

Jon realized the idiocy of his comment. “I mean… okay, the cobweb... thing is worrying. And the mind control isn’t fine. But that’s not what I was talking about, and that’s not what they were talking about, and it’s  _ still _ none of their damn business.”

Martin blinked a little more rapidly and looked away. “Um, thank you. I…well, anyway,” Martin replied, pushing his chair back and collecting up the plates. “Do you want any more? I can cook some. Or would you like some toast?”

“...I could have some toast. But you don’t have to, to wait on me like this. I’m not an invalid.”

“Like I said, least I can do.” Martin slotted some bread into the toaster, and put the butter and marmalade on the table.

An awkward silence descended on them after that. Jon fidgeted with his fork, and  after several long moments, the question seemed to force its way up and out through his throat all on its own. “I was… I was wondering, though. You eat food normally. Is your stomach patched up in the same way as your skin, then?” he asked, immediately regretting it.

Martin paused. “I don’t… I don’t actually know? I never really thought about it before. It… It can’t work normally anymore, can it? Not after… But, I mean, everything seems to work the same? I still,um, use the lavatory and all that, so--”

The toast popped up and both of them flinched. Martin turned his attention back to it. “Sorry, not really a breakfast conversation topic. Is this toasted enough?”

“It’s fine,” Jon replied. He was already dreading the next six days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for self harm in this chapter.

After breakfast, Martin dithered at the sink, spending much more time washing the dishes than was necessary. Jon still sat at the table, feeling awkward about letting Martin continue to do this, but frankly a little grateful that he didn't have to get back on his feet yet. He hadn't thought that the clean-up would have gone on for so long, though, or he would have offered to help.

After Martin had finally dried the last fork and put it away, he turned around, fidgeting nervously.

Ah. He'd been stalling.

“So, I, um, I really think that I should stay here, until you can leave. Because there might be a fire or something else horrible and if that happens I can at least try to break the spell so you can escape. And I know you don't… like having me around but I'll do my best to stay out of your way or, or be helpful while you're stuck here and--”

“Okay,” Jon said.

Martin stopped. He stared at Jon for a moment. “...what?”

“Okay. It's certainly not ideal, but nothing about this situation is ideal.”

“You don’t… want me to leave anymore?” Martin asked.

“No, I suppose not,” Jon replied, shrugging and brushing a few conspicuous breadcrumbs off of the kitchen table. He still needed the information about Gertrude and the tapes, and he needed Martin to not go to the police, and that would be easiest to accomplish if he stayed here. Assuming that Gertrude really was in the tunnels in the first place, of course. And if Martin was lying to him, if he was plotting something, then it would still probably be better to keep him here, where Jon could keep an eye on him. Wouldn't it?

“Oh, god, what did I do to you?” Jon glanced up from the table. Martin looked horrified. “I don’t… I don’t think I told you to stop wanting that. Did I? Does this work without verbal commands, now?”

“Martin, it’s not that, I just thought about it, and--”

“And you thought I had a point?! No, see, that- that’s terrifying. Because I _wanted_ you to stop shouting at me, and I _wanted_ you to let me stay, and I _wanted_ you listen to me, and now- now you’re just doing it!”

“I’m not…” Jon trailed off, considering. He didn’t want Martin around for the same reason Martin wanted to be around, as some kind of ridiculous failsafe in case of a fire. He couldn't exactly tell Martin that he had ulterior motives, though, not until he could be more sure of how Martin would react.

… but it was very convenient, that Jon's ulterior motives lined up directly with Martin's desires. Were his thoughts being manipulated? He didn't think that they were, but the manipulation would be a poor one if it couldn't make him think that as well.

Jon’s stomach roiled at that thought. If he couldn't trust his own mind, what could he do? How could he be sure that it wasn't Martin's threads drawing him to the conclusions, weaving a trap in his own head?

Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, shivering.

“...Well, then. Let’s put it to the test,” Jon said, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt and starting to unwind the bandages on his left arm.

Martin looked concerned. Good. “What… what are you doing, Jon?”

“I’m going to see if I can still do something that you’ll hate,” Jon replied, leaving the bandage on the kitchen table as he got to his feet. The bloody holes in his flesh were mostly scabbed over, but dried blood from the places where he’d reopened them was still crusted on his skin.

Martin looked pale at the sight of it. He backed away when Jon walked over to the kitchen counter. “Jon, I don’t think--”

“I don’t care,” Jon replied, pulling open a drawer and removing a chef’s knife. He rested his left hand on the counter and put the blade against the skin of his forearm, on a bare patch between two of the holes.

Martin inhaled sharply. “ _Jon, d--_ ” he cut himself off by clapping his hands over his mouth. His eyes were wide and pleading, when Jon looked over at him.

“Well? Let’s see you stop me,” Jon said, and then he pulled the knife across.

His skin opened under the metal, and sharp, biting pain blazed through him. Jon’s knees buckled. He hit the floor of the kitchen, and running footsteps approached.

The knife was tugged out of his hand, cast across the floor with a clatter. An arm wrapped around his back, supporting him.

“Jon, you absolute idiot!”

Jon laughed, giddy and more than a little hysterical. “Maybe. But at least I’m my own idiot.”

“I can’t believe you!” Martin’s hand was a gentle counterpoint to his voice as he lifted up Jon’s arm. He hissed and grabbed Jon’s right hand, putting it over the wound. “Here, keep pressure on it.”

Jon winced, but pressed down anyway, his arm slippery with blood. Martin hoisted him to his feet and led him over to the sink.

Martin turned on the tap and held his hand- the one not hooked under Jon's armpit, holding him up- under the water. After a moment he nodded and pulled Jon's arm under the lukewarm flow.

Jon sucked in a hissing breath between his teeth, flinching. He watched the pink water swirl down the drain.

“Hush, we need to make sure it's clean. Can you stand on your own? Lean against the counter if you need to.”

Jon nodded, gritting his teeth. Martin let go of him to grab the dish soap and work up some suds. He scrubbed Jon's left hand and the right one as well, once he got Jon to let go of his arm. He washed Jon's forearm, too, just barely avoiding getting soap in the cut.

“Okay. That should be good. Put pressure on the wound again, please.”

Jon held onto his arm as Martin guided him over to the table to sit back down in the chair.

“Stay put for a second, okay?” Then Martin was gone, dashing for the first aid kit, presumably.

Jon sat there for a moment, warm blood trickling out from between his fingers, and then Martin returned, dumping the first aid kit onto the table.

Out came the gauze. Martin dabbed away the blood and frowned down at the cut.

“I don't think it will need stitches. Which is good because you can't leave to go to the bloody hospital, Jon!” Martin snapped, picking up a few wound closure strips.

“Well, if there's anyone who could get a doctor to make a house call…”

“Don't joke about that.” Martin applied the strips, closing the edges of the cut together. Then more gauze, and a bandage to hold the whole thing in place.

Martin held onto Jon's arm for a moment longer, checking the bandage and presumably Jon's circulation, judging from the way he peered at the skin on either side of the bandage.

Finally he lifted his head and met Jon's eyes. He went red and dropped Jon's arm, jerking backwards. “Sorry. Sorry, I know you said not to touch you, but, but you were bleeding and it's all my fault and I couldn't just--”

“It's fine,” Jon said, reflexively. Then he thought about it. Yes, he had been distracted by the searing pain that was just now starting to subside into a dull burn, but hadn't been bothered by the treatment at all, had he? Martin's hands had been warm and brisk and efficient, and hadn't felt at all like the whisper-light creep of spider legs. “ It's fine, Martin. I doubt I could have undertaken the first aid so neatly on my own. Thank you.”

“Oh. Um, it's nothing. I had to take care of my mum, when she… when she had some problems, so I know my way around most first aid supplies.” Martin looked away, and his face did something unreadable when his eyes fell on the blood splattered across the kitchen floor, and on the counter, and on the knife lying in a dusty corner of Jon's kitchen. “... I'll clean this up. How about you go to the sitting room and rest? Do you need any help?”

“I hurt my arm, not my legs.”

“Right. And, um, thank you. For letting me stay.”

Jon made a noncommittal sound and left the kitchen.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon realized, halfway into his sitting room, that he hadn't called the Institute this morning.

Which, of course he hadn't. He didn't have any questions for them anymore. He had questions for Martin.

But he didn't want them to know that. He couldn't trust them. If there was someone there who had killed Gertrude, who found out that he was trapped like a fish in a barrel…

Simply cutting off contact and stopping asking questions would be too out of character to not raise suspicions. And it wouldn't take too much investigation to get at least an idea of the situation Jon was in. He couldn't afford to come under scrutiny.

But what if he was asked to come in?

No, he'd had enough people fussing over him about his wounds that he should be entitled to use them as an excuse for why he will be unable to make it to the office for a week. Might as well get some use out of them.

Jon retrieved his phone from his bedroom and made the call. It was picked up after one ring.

“Jon, this is a pleasant surprise. I honestly expected this call a few hours ago. Did you sleep in?” Elias asked.

“Some,” Jon replied. “Is there any--”

“No, Jon. There's still no sign of Martin. You might… want to prepare yourself for the possibility that he won't return,” Elias said, in what Jon assumed was supposed to be a delicate tone.

He glanced towards his kitchen, where Martin was still shuffling around. “Have there been any rescue parties sent out?”

Elias sighed. “Jon, the tunnels are completely unmapped, and no one knows how far out they go. We simply don't have the budget to mount a search of the scale that would be required.”

“No. No, of course not,” Jon said, feeling cold. He should be glad about this, really. The fewer people poking around in the tunnels, the less likely Gertrude’s body was to be disturbed. But something about the casual disregard in Elias’ voice made Jon's skin creep.

“Just focus on your own recovery. Everything else can wait.”

“...fine. Keep me updated.”

“ Of course, Jon. You'll be the first to know.” Elias said, and ended the call.

Well, that had been relatively painless, all things considered.

“Was that Elias?” Martin called.

Dammit, Martin had heard him. He should have closed the door. Jon came out of his bedroom. “Yes. He told me that you're probably dead.”

“Ah. Do you think I should contact them? Let them know that I'm not?”

_ No.  _ “... it's up to you. But if you talk to them they'll probably want you to come in and make a statement and you'll have to leave me here. Or you'll have to explain the current situation and why you're not leaving. And I can't imagine you want everyone knowing about your… condition.”

“ Oh. Right. But… when I do go back, won't I have to explain anyway?”

“Well, this way, we've got a week to come up with a believable story. Maybe we can tell them you were in quarantine. Or if I just say that I already took your statement, I doubt many people would care about the details.” Jon decided to not tell Martin that no one was even bothering to try to look for him.

“You would back me up?” Martin asked.

Jon needed Martin in the Archives. He was the only one who knew where Gertrude was. “Of course. My apartment isn't the only place we're stuck in together. This arrangement is temporary, hopefully, but whatever the Archives has done to us, it seems significantly more long term.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I'm not certain you should thank me for enabling that, actually.” Jon shrugged and walked over to his desk, opening his laptop. He thought he still had a few files from the Archives available on here, and he could see if he could try to find some blueprints for the Millbank prison, on the off chance that they would provide any insight into the layout of the tunnels...

He only remembered that Martin existed when a cup of tea was set down on his desk, far back enough from his elbow and his mess of scribbled notes that it wasn't in danger of spilling.

“So, I think I'm going to go out and get some more clothes. These ones are… well, I tried to give them a bit of a wash last night but there's only so much I can do with just the one set, so... in the interest of keeping everything pleasant in, um, confined quarters, I need to get some more. I charged my phone, so if you need anything, or there's any problems at all, just give me a call and I'll be back as soon as possible. I texted you my number, to make sure you have it. I'm not going to go too far, just the charity shop down the way.”

“I have somehow managed to survive this long without a nursemaid, Martin.” Jon replied, not looking up from his laptop. He did reach out and snag the tea. “Try not to bring back any suspicious books.”

“Okay. Do you want anything for lunch?”

“Mhn.”

“...I'll just pick something, then.”

Jon became aware that Martin had returned some time later when he said “I'm not really sure that counts as resting.”

“I'm sitting down. What more do you want from me?”

Martin sighed. “I'm going to borrow some of your books. I left your pad thai on the desk. Please try to eat it at some point.”

The fragments of the Millbank prison blueprints Jon could find were spectacularly unhelpful, but if Jon got the sewer maps for the area, the he could cross-reference sections where there were gaps or low points where tunnels would be likely to go...

The light coming in through the windows was painting the walls in oranges and reds when Martin came over again. “Okay, you've had enough. It's practically nighttime. Come eat something. I made beans and toast. I would have ordered something but you were unresponsive. I had to put your pad thai in the fridge.”

Jon lifted his head, blinking owlishly. “What?”

He noticed that Martin was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. The perils of buying from the charity shop. Well, that and the Leitners.

“It's time for supper. Come have some.”

“Oh. All right.” Jon stood up, and his body immediately decided to remind him that he'd been sitting hunched over his laptop for hours. He hissed in discomfort and hobbled to the kitchen table.

“I told you that didn’t count as resting.” Martin said, pushing a plate of beans and toast in front of Jon.

“I need to know more about the tunnels. They’ve been under the Archives this whole time. It doesn’t bode well,” Jon replied, taking a bite. And then several more in quick succession, when he realized how hungry he was. 

“I can’t believe that even mind control can’t get you to stop hunting down secrets,” Martin muttered.

“You must not have specified the requirements for resting well enough,” Jon replied, starting on the second piece of toast.

* * *

By this point, the nightmares that had him lurching up in bed, gasping for air and feeling his skin crawling, were practically routine.

They weren’t any less terrifying, and Jon wasn’t any more sure than he had been the first time that there  _ definitely  _ wasn’t something horrible on him or just under his skin, but at least now he had a system.

Off went the sheets. On went the light. Legs first, bandages off, inspect from the toes up. Shirt off, more bandages off, check the stomach, the chest, the arms--

And then the system hit a snag. Because the bandage on his left arm, the one that Martin had put on him, didn’t come off. All of the others unwound easily, letting him look underneath and confirm that there was no creeping, writhing things on his skin.

But Martin’s bandage stayed put.

Jon was sure that Martin hadn't used adhesive bandages. Jon checked, and yes, he had definitely removed the bandage clips. The fabric should have just unraveled off of his arm, but instead it remained fixed in place.

...that was nothing to worry about. Maybe Martin just tucked in in the end. He'd certainly been more fastidious about dressing Jon's wound than Jon had been about his other bandages, since they had come off and gone back on dozens of times now. He felt over the fabric, searching for the place where the end had been hidden.

Jon’s fingers found the end of the bandage, which had not been tucked in. It laid perfectly flush against the rest of the fabric, ignoring the pull of both gravity and of Jon's hand.

Nothing to worry about. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for that, surely.

Jon finally managed to hook a thumbnail under the edge of the bandage, and pulled. It came up with no small amount of resistance, and as it did, Jon could see the stretching of the white mass of cobweb that had laid hidden underneath.

Jon slapped the bandage back down and tried very hard not to hyperventilate.

“Martin. Martin!” he yelled.

“Wha- Jon?!” There was a sudden scuffle of noise from the sitting room, followed a thump and rapid footfalls. The doorknob turned, and the door shuddered as Martin tried to throw it open. The chair held firm. “Jon?! I can’t- I can’t get in! Are you okay?” Martin cried, scrabbling at the door. He tried pushing it open again, without success.

Of course, of course the bloody chair worked now. Jon reluctantly unclamped his hand from around the bandage and went to the door to remove the obstacle. He yanked the door open and Martin very nearly fell on top off him.

Martin jumped backwards, and Jon noted this time that Martin’s eyes definitely reflected the light in a way that human eyes could not. The flash was unmistakable when Martin looked him up and down before frantically glancing around the room for threats. “Are you all right? What’s--”

“What the hell did you do to me?” Jon demanded.

Martin looked back at him, confused. “What? I didn’t- I mean, aside from- I’m going to need more specifics, Jon.”

“This!” Jon snapped, gesturing at his bandaged arm.

The puzzled look remained. “...you got hurt. And then I bandaged you up? It happened this morning, Jon. Don’t you remember? Are… are you having a nightmare?” Martin asked.

Oh, that was a nice thought. Maybe it was all a nightmare. Maybe Jon would wake up soon, and his skin wouldn't be full of holes and he wouldn't be trapped in his apartment with a spider monster that looked like his assistant.

But, no. Jon's luck wasn't that good.

“No, I remember. But I don't remember the bloody cobwebs, Martin!” he snapped.

“The what?”

“My arm. Is covered. In cobwebs,” Jon grit out the words, holding his left arm as far away from the rest of his body as possible. “ Just under the bandage. What is it doing to me?”

Any number of horrible possibilities were presenting themselves. Dozens of tiny spiders skittering out from under the bandage. The creep of legs against his skin, moving away from the edge of the bandage, towards the center, towards the gap in his skin. His flesh being dissolved by venom into an easily digestible slurry, held in place only by the cocoon of web around it...

“I… I don't know. I didn't… when I put it on, I didn't want to hurt you. I just wanted to help. I wanted to make you feel better. Does it hurt?” Martin asked.

Jon took a moment to assess this. Aside from the intermittent itching that he desperately hoped was only psychosomatic, the bandage and everything underneath didn't feel like anything in particular. Just a slight pressure around his arm. His cut didn't even hurt.

“...no,” he admitted reluctantly, half expecting to feel dozens of fangs sinking into his skin to correct this oversight.

Martin held out his hands. “Can I see it?”

Jon hesitated. Could Martin really make this any worse?

Yes, almost certainly.

But would he?

Jon held his arm out. Martin took it in careful hands. The bandage came free with what appeared to be significantly more ease when Martin pulled on the end.

When the cobwebs came back into view, Jon flinched and looked away. He didn't want to see things stirring to life against his skin.

The only things he felt were the gentle tug of the bandage being unwound, and Martin's hand holding up his arm.

“Oh,” Martin breathed, when he finished removing the bandage.

Jon cringed.

“No, Jon, it's okay. Here, look.”

Jon risked a glance. For a second, he thought that he was seeing the wrong arm, because the cut was gone. But, no. The holes were still there, and, on closer inspection, so was the cut. A barely visible seam of a line ran across his arm, sewn shut by a single, hair-thin strand of web.

Jon felt sick.

“I fixed it,” Martin murmured, still looking down at Jon's arm. He was smiling. His voice sounded wrong. He stroked a finger lightly across the cut. “You were hurt, and I fixed it. I fixed you. I… I wonder if it will work on the rest…”

Jon ripped his arm away, stumbling backwards. He was suddenly very aware that he was standing there in his pants and little else when Martin looked at him. “Martin!”

The stare that Martin had fixed him with suddenly vanished, Martin's eyes snapping up to his face and going wide. “ Oh, oh god. I'm sorry. I didn't- I- I wouldn't- I don't- I'm sorry,” he stammered, backing up rapidly. His one hand groped blindly for the door, and he yanked it shut, closing it between them as he retreated from the room.

There was a pause, and then Martin's footsteps continued further away from the door, followed by a loud creak as he threw himself onto the sofa.

Jon hurried forward to jam the chair back under the doorknob.

It took a minute for his heart rate to slow back down. He put the bandages back over his worm wounds, which were at this point almost entirely scabbed over and frankly probably didn't need to be covered any more. But the way that Martin had stared at them...

Jon pulled his shirt back on before he looked at his arm again. Martin had taken the bandage and the cobwebs when he left, so the line in his skin and the almost-invisible spider's thread were bare. It glinted faintly in the light of his bedroom.

Jon wanted to dig his fingernails into that cut and tear out the thread, but his hand swerved around that space on his skin when he tried to touch it. His fingers skittered away to either side, unable to make contact.

He remembered how easily Martin had touched it, and shivered.

He tucked the towel back under the door, flicked off the light, and tried to sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Jon discovered fairly quickly that whatever was prohibiting him from touching the cut did not extend to him covering it, and he was able to pull the sheets over the arm without issue. There was a brief moment where that was a relief, where he believed that he could just hide it, out of sight, and try to forget that it existed.

And then he remembered what had happened before, when he’d let Martin’s handiwork stay hidden and out of sight, and it had him clawing the sheet away frantically, feeling over the portion of his arm he was allowed to touch.

Was there less space than before? Was it spreading?

He turned the light back on. As far as he could tell, no extra web had grown over his arm in the moment it had stayed out of his sight. He counted the stitches in his skin. And then he did it again.

After the fourth count, Jon was relatively sure of the number of tiny sutures in his flesh, and he scribbled it down on the pad of paper he kept on his bedside table.

There. He could just count the number in the morning, and at regular intervals after that. If it started increasing, then Jon would have to… do something about that. What, he wasn’t sure, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Ah, but the web wasn’t only present on the surface of his skin, was it?  Not all of it could be observed at all time. The ends hidden in his flesh could be up to anything. Spreading out over his muscles, laying a lacework on his bones, threading up through his veins...

Jon contemplated whether he would be able to perform an amputation using nothing but the objects currently in his apartment. After a moment’s consideration, he had to admit that his home was woefully ill-equipped for do-it-yourself surgery. Apparently this was a serious oversight that had not been brought to his attention before this point.

He only really had his kitchen knives, and none of them would be up to the task of severing bone. He could try going through the joint, but he doubted he would have the stomach for it.

He would almost certainly die if he attempted it, especially since he would be unable to get medical attention after the fact.

And even if he did happen to have a bonesaw just lying about, there was simply no way Martin would allow the attempt to be carried out in the first place.

He was stuck with this now, just like he was stuck in his apartment. Every time he struggled, the web just closed in tighter around him.

He wondered if the Martin-thing was just toying with him. Maybe it found Jon’s terror and desperation funny. That certainly would not be out of character for some of the things Jon had heard about in the statements...

It would explain why it had been so insistent on staying.

Jon felt a chill creep down his spine when he considered what that would mean, when it came time for his week of confinement to come to an end.

Did he have six days left to live?

If he did, what could he even do about that? He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t fight it.

He still had his phone. He could ask for help.

 _We simply don’t have the budget,_ Elias’ voice echoed in Jon’s head. He’d be no help.

Tim and Sasha. Would asking them for help just lure more victims into the web? Probably; he doubted he would be able to convince them that something that looked like Martin was at all dangerous, and that would leave them vulnerable to it. He couldn't drag them into this.

The police? _Please help, I’m being held hostage. No, I’m not tied up or locked away, I’m simply unable to leave. Please come arrest something that can just make you turn around and leave and probably forget that I ever called at all._

What other options were there? An exterminator? Even assuming he could find someone who would spray the place without ensuring that all occupants left the apartment, anything potent enough to kill a spider Martin’s size would almost certainly kill him as well.

No, there was no one who he could turn to for help. He was on his own.

Would confronting the thing about its charade accomplish anything? If he let it know he’d figured it out, would the loss of the amusing illusion bore the thing enough that it would move on? Give up? Or would that just move up the time of his execution?

Could he trick the thing, somehow, into releasing its hold on his mind? If he could just get out of the apartment, then…

Well, then he would probably die in the corridor.

...Maybe Jon could try the time-honoured method of rolling up a newspaper and swatting it.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he woke up with sunlight streaming through his window, laying on his side with his arm out in front of him, like he’d been trying to keep an eye on it even when he slept.

He counted the stitches. He was probably going to die very soon, but at least the spider’s thread hadn’t been colonizing more of the outside of his arm. He still couldn’t touch the cut.

He stayed in bed. He had no plan, no options. Interacting with the thing more would only give it what it wanted.

Maybe the change in his behaviour would let it know Jon had found it out. Maybe that would make it kill him faster.

It didn’t matter all that much to Jon anymore. He wasn’t interested in continuing to play some sick version of house with it.

He called Elias again, mostly out of morbid curiosity. Maybe the real Martin, the human Martin had turned up dead or alive, just in time to confirm that Jon was indeed trapped here with a horror.

Instead, there continued to be no news. Not surprising, Jon supposed. The thing had been in the Archives for months already.

Jon ignored the sounds of stirring in the sitting room, the smell of cooking food, the pacing footsteps. He alternated between staring out the window and watching his arm for signs of more activity.

Eventually, there was a soft, tentative knock on his door. “Jon? Are you… You’re still alive, right?” Martin's voice asked.

Jon didn’t want to respond. He didn’t want to talk to whatever it was that had stared at him out of Martin’s eyes last night.

But Jon had no doubt that the thing would break down his door if it wasn’t given confirmation that Jon was still breathing. “I am,” he replied.

There was a relieved sigh from the other side of the door. “ It's almost two o’clock. Do you want to eat something? I warmed up the pad thai from yesterday.”

Jon didn’t reply.

Having a flap at the bottom of the door for food to be pushed through would have illustrated their current situation very well, wouldn’t it?

“Um. Okay. I… I’m just going to leave it outside of your door, then. And I’m going to go for a walk. I’ll be gone for a half hour, so, if you want to come out and get anything…”

There was a moment of expectant silence, then a soft clink of a plate being set down on the floor. Footsteps moved through his apartment, and his front door swung open, then shut.

Jon waited for ten minutes, listening intently. It didn’t sound like the thing had stayed behind. But who knew how silent it could be?

But lurking in the apartment to ambush Jon when he came out seemed out of character for the creature. He doubted it would want to end the game so soon.

At least, he hoped that was the case.

He opened the door of his bedroom cautiously, scanning the sitting room, the corridor, the ceiling. Nothing.

Jon crept out of the room, stepping over the plate of pad thai, the cold cup of tea, and the large glass of water. He snatched up his tape recorder, his laptop, and the largest knife from his kitchen.

Only once those were safely stored in his room did he pull the dishes inside, as an afterthought. Then the chair and towel went back in place. He spent a few minutes sifting through the noodles for any unpleasant surprises. Everything seemed normal enough.

Jon picked up the tape recorder and turned it on. “Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding… regarding his captivity by an unknown creature. Statement taken direct from subject, July 31st, 2016. Statement begins.

“If you’re hearing this, I am likely dead. Whoever is listening to this, please heed this warning; you cannot trust Martin Blackwood. He is not human, not anymore. He can subvert your will. Do not let him speak to you. Do not let him touch you. I don’t… I don’t know what the thing that calls itself Martin Blackwood wants, and I don’t know if it will return to the Archives when it finishes with me, but if it does, I can only hope that this warning might serve to keep others from meeting the same fa--”

The door of his apartment clicked open, and Jon shut the recorder off. He would have to leave the tape somewhere it wouldn’t be discovered by the thing. Hidden, or perhaps put out the window if Jon could figure out how to get it to the ground without it smashing. It would be significantly easier to accomplish if the thing didn’t know that Jon had recorded a warning to hide away in the first place.

He held his breath as the footsteps came down the entranceway and into the sitting room, slowing near the bedroom door. Then the footsteps continued, further into the sitting room. Jon sighed. The thing seemed to be satisfied with Jon taking the food, at least for now.

Jon opened his laptop. He doubted that there was much that he could do to avert his fate now, as deeply ensnared as he already was. But the more information he could gather, the more useful his warning could be for the others. He might as well use his remaining time in a productive fashion.

Spiders… the only halfway supported statement involving them had been Mr. Vittery's account of his ghost spider, which seemed completely irrelevant to the situation at hand.

Although, investigating that case had been the one to get Prentiss involved. It has been one of the last things Martin had done before he had disappeared. Just a coincidence?

Or perhaps his assistant had been devoured by worms and then possessed by a ghost spider. Yes, that was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Incredibly useful as a conclusion, too.

Jon sighed and opened up his email. There had to be more spider statements in the Archives. Maybe some of them would be relevant.

The problem was, he had no way to access anything in the Archives.

Tim was just as badly off as Jon was, in terms of bloody holes, so he was likely on leave. Would Sasha be in? It was possible, but it seemed unlikely when the Head Archivist and another assistant were on leave, the third assistant was missing presumed dead, and there were likely significant construction efforts being undertaken in the Archives.

Jon emailed both Sasha and Tim anyway, requesting them to look for any statements primarily involving spiders, and to let him know what they had found. If the statements were genuine, he doubted he would be able to access them through his laptop, but perhaps a summary would transfer through email well enough.

Another email to Hannah in Artefact Storage, asking about any objects they might have pertaining to spiders. A long shot, but Jon would take what information he could get.

The last source he had, before he had to resort to trawling internet forums for snippets that might not be entirely useless nonsense, was his own experience.

Revisiting the memory was unpleasant and not terribly useful. There hadn't been any indication of Martin having a Leitner before he had died, and Jon doubted that even Martin would have been able to stumble across something like that without realizing the danger it posed. The thing certainly didn't seem to be keeping any books with it currently. It wasn't impossible, but if the book was outside of his apartment, there was nothing that Jon could do to confirm its existence or do anything about it.

If the thing that looked like Martin was anything like Mr. Spider… Well, it almost certainly wouldn't stop with Jon. It would be constantly dragging new victims into its web. The only thing that seemed to slow it down was getting it to eat someone else instead, and it was a roll of the dice if even that would work. Jon couldn't just leave Tim and Sasha to deal with this thing alone. He needed more information.

With a sigh, he opened up his browser. Hunting for not completely worthless nonsense it was, then.

He ate the long-cold pad thai before he tried to sleep, after a day of fruitless search and a lack of responses to his emails. There were still the same number of stitches in his arm.

* * *

There was another tentative knock at his bedroom door in the morning.

“Jon? I don’t… I don’t know how to fix this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for scaring you, I’m sorry for trapping you, I… I mean, logistically there's not much difference between not being able to leave your apartment and not being able to leave your bedroom, but it's not the same thing at all, is it? The apartment thing, that I can't fix, because I don't know how and undoing would probably involve messing with your head again and I know you'd never want that.

“But this? I know that if I just… went away, then you could come out. Because I'm here, because I choose to be here, you're stuck in there. And it's awful and selfish of me to still want to stay. But I… I thought you were dead, Jon. I was sure you were dead, that I'd abandoned you and that you'd died horribly down in the tunnels and that it was all my fault--” Martin's voice cracked. He took a shuddering, ragged breath.

“Sorry. I… I just can't shake the feeling that if I leave you alone now, that I'll never see you again. ...No, that's not right. I'm not afraid that I'll never see you again. I'm afraid that you'll die. I know… I know you hate spiders and you probably definitely hate me too. I… if you never wanted to see me again, I'd understand. And after this… well. But for now, while you're still stuck, I can't just leave you to die. Not again. I won't.

“But I don't want to make this even worse for you. I could… I could stay out in the corridor, if you wanted. I bet I could make your neighbours ignore me. Then you would have the whole run of the apartment again. Would that be better? Can you… can you just talk to me, Jon? Let me know what you want me to do?”

Jon was quiet for a moment, then he tucked the tape under his mattress and walked to the door. He needed answers. He pulled the chair away and opened the door. “All right. Let's talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's experience with Mr. Spider is from MAG 81- A Guest For Mr. Spider.


	8. Chapter 8

The thing that looked like Martin stumbled backwards when Jon opened the door, only stopping when its legs bumped against the sofa and brought it up short. It held up its hands, like those were the dangerous parts of it. The nervous, startled look on its face was surprisingly convincing, but Jon supposed that since it was wearing Martin's body, that one probably came as the default. “Oh. I didn't… really expect that would work, to be honest. Thanks for coming out? Do you, uh, want something to eat first? You haven't really had anything except that pad thai, if, if you actually even ate that. I made pancakes?”

Jon was reasonably hungry. If this went horribly wrong, he might as well die on a full stomach. “Fine.”

The thing scurried into the kitchen, and Jon followed. He stopped near the kitchen table, on the opposite side from where the thing was. He didn't sit down, instead he just watched his captor. It started pouring out tea into two mugs.

Jon considered the incongruity of it all. It seemed strange that the thing was so solicitous of Jon's needs while it was planning his grisly demise. Maybe it was trying to fatten Jon up, but it would take a very significant amount of food to make any noticeable change to his body in the span of a week, which it hadn't been providing. If the thing wanted to eat someone healthy and tender, then it had made a spectacularly poor choice of meal going after Jon. He doubted that it really was the flesh itself which the thing wanted. Surely Jon being weak with hunger would lend itself more to the terror and desperation that it was after?

Maybe it was all just a part of the charade? Maybe it just wanted to keep acting like Martin for a while longer.

Well, he had come out looking for answers, hadn't he? “Why are you bothering with this? It hardly matters if I eat or not, not when I'm going to die soon anyway.”

The shattering crash made Jon jump in alarm. A full mug had slipped out of Martin's fingers to smash on the floor of the kitchen. The thing that owned the hand now didn't seem to notice.

“You're going to what?!” it exclaimed, looking horrified. “You're dying?! Why? What's wrong? Are you sick? Oh, god, you should be in a hospital. You should be in a hospital but instead you're stuck here and I'm probably making your… your cancer or whatever it is even worse, aren't I? You can't stay here, we need to get you to the hospital right now, to hell with the stupid sp--”

“Martin! I'm not dying!” Jon snapped.

“You're- you're not? But you said- you said you were going to die soon.”

“Yes. I am. Because I am trapped in an apartment with a spider monster that has promised ever so nicely that I won't have to be worried about being trapped by the end of the week. I am capable of putting two and two together.”

The thing blinked several times, its mouth hanging open. “What?” it finally said.

“Was I always the target, or was I just a convenient victim to take when I went into the tunnels alone? What are your plans for the Archives?”

“My what? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come off it. You're going to kill me anyway, you might as well answer my questions.”

“I'm going to _what_? No! I would never do that! I don't- Look, I thought we went over this already. I don't want to kill you. I don't want to kill anyone, but especially not you!”

“Then why do you want to stay here?” Jon demanded.

“Do you ever listen to me? I just told you five minutes ago! I'm scared! I'm scared because we work at a horrifying place that seems to attract all kinds of awful things, and one of them just tried to kill you. It _did_ kill me! And now you're trapped somewhere you can't escape, and I don't want to leave you alone.”

“Why? Because if another awful thing comes to call, then I'll be so much better off having _two_ of them in my apartment?” Jon snapped.

The thing flinched like it had been slapped. “I…” It swallowed. “ Okay, I may be a monster too, now. But I wouldn't ever hurt you, Jon. Isn't it better, to have one on your side?”

“Why should I believe you? I'm expected to believe that your priority is, what, taking care of me? What possible reason do you have to give a damn about my well-being at this point?”

“I… it's… it's because I'm in love with you. I really don't know why you haven't noticed it yet, everyone else seems to have,” the thing said, then gasped and clapped its hands over its mouth.

Jon snorted derisively. “Right, I'm just supposed to…” he trailed off as the meaning of the words finally registered. In love with…? He considered the events of the last few days in light of this new information. The food and the tea. The fretting over him resting, the worrying over his wounds, the first aid. The break in his voice when he talked about thinking that Jon had been dead.

“...I believe you,” Jon breathed. He wasn't going to die at the end of the week. At least, not by Martin's hands. The relief was making his knees go weak, and he slowly sank into one of the dining chairs.

“I shouldn't have said that,” Martin muttered. “I really shouldn't have… I didn't… Oh!” He suddenly seemed to realize that he was standing in a slowly-spreading puddle of tea.

Martin grabbed the kitchen roll to soak up the mess, and Jon lowered his head into his arms, feeling loose and giddy. He hid his smile against the grain of the table.

There was the soft scuff and clink of porcelain shards being swept into a dustpan by the time the relief finally started to ebb, and Jon had the capacity to consider what this latest revelation really meant.

Yes, Jon was facing significantly smaller odds of being covered in web and eaten alive. But just because Martin thought he loved… Jon, of all people, it didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. The news was littered with the battered bodies of women and men who had partners that claimed to love them.

Martin wouldn't need to hit Jon to keep him under control, though. He had the perfect skill set to have Jon provide all the things that Martin could want. All the things that Jon couldn't provide on his own.

Jon felt a chill creep down his spine at that thought. Then there was a quiet clunk on the table. Jon lifted his head to look at the tea cup that Martin had put down in front of him.

“Can we… can we just forget that I said that?” Martin asked, not meeting Jon's eyes. “I… it's not important.”

The chill was snuffed out halfway down his spine. If Martin had wanted to have Jon as a puppet, he could have done that already.

“Yes, of course. Consider it forgotten,” Jon replied, straightening up. He took the tea. “You, er, you mentioned pancakes?”


	9. Chapter 9

Martin fetched the plate of pancakes, setting it on the table along with a dish of lemon wedges and a bowl of sugar. Plates and cutlery for Jon and himself came next. A fresh, unsmashed tea cup was set down near Martin's plate. “ Um, can I get you anything else?”

“No, this is fine. Sit down,” Jon replied, taking two pancakes for himself.

Martin settled into the chair, watching Jon warily, as though he was worried that Jon was going to lunge at him with the butter knife Martin had just set out.

Jon was too busy digging into the pancakes. Apparently being let out from under a death sentence worked up an appetite.

“Um. So. I don’t… I’ve kind of lost the thread, at this point. Are you still angry with me? Or, um, terrified? Or whatever that just was? I don’t really know what’s going on, to be honest,” Martin said.

_ So, nothing new then, _ an uncharitable part of Jon thought. “I’m not about to lock myself in my bedroom again, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s good. I was starting to worry that I might have to start shoving granola bars under the door or something. Do... do you want me to leave the apartment?”

“No, it’s fine. You can stay in here,” Jon replied. And then a thought occurred to him.

Martin had offered to stay in the hall and make Jon’s neighbours ignore him. Martin was willing to use his abilities on the other people in Jon’s building. Probably on other people in general. Martin only treated Jon as carefully as he had because Jon was a special case, and he’d already trapped Jon in his apartment and partially covered him in cobwebs. How dangerous would he be to the people he didn’t purport to love?

“...you  _ should  _ stay in here,” Jon added.

“Oh. All right. Are you… you're not afraid of me anymore?”

“ Well… no, the whole spider... web…  _ thing _ is still terrifying. But I don't think that you're going to kill me anymore, and I'm reasonably sure you aren't going to subject me to a fate worse than death, either. So you're coming out ahead of... a frankly uncomfortably high number of things in my life.”

“That's horrible.”

“Yes, I suppose that it is.” Jon took a third pancake. “Are you going to have any?”

“ Um. Right.” Martin took one pancake and started cutting it into tiny little strips. “I… didn’t  _ tell _ you to be nicer to me, did I? I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that, but...”

Jon looked at Martin over his pancake. “Do you just assume that any time I am in any way agreeable it’s a result of an external supernatural force?”

“Sort of?”

Jon sighed. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t demonstrate my free will by slicing myself open again.”

Martin went pale. “Please don’t.” His eyes strayed to Jon’s left arm. “Is… is it all right?”

“It depends on what your definition of ‘all right’ is. If you mean ‘sealed shut with a spiderweb that I cannot remove no matter how much I want to tear it out and may well be spreading to the rest of me’, then, yes, it’s perfectly fine. I’m trying not to think about it.”

“I'm sorry. I… if it makes it any better, I don’t think it should permanent, not, not like it is for me. You're still alive, so I think that when the cut heals up naturally the web will go away. ...I hope.”

“As I said, I’m trying not to think about it.”

“You don’t want me to do any of the other wounds, do you? I really think it would--”

“Absolutely not.”

“...okay.”

* * *

 

Jon had finished his fourth pancake when he remembered what his goal had been regarding Martin before he had been sidetracked by the threat of imminent death.

Gertrude, he had to figure out where Gertrude was. And… while yesterday’s reaction to Martin may have been a bit extreme, he really did need to learn more about what kind of thing his assistant now was. Martin might not want to hurt Jon, but if he was going to be going back to the Archives, then Jon needed to know how dangerous he might be to everyone else.

...he wasn’t really sure what he could  _ do _ if Martin did turn out to be dangerous to others, but at the very least he would have to warn Tim and Sasha.

And having more knowledge about the situation at hand couldn’t be a bad thing, in any case. Martin either truly did not know the specifics of the nature he now possessed, or he was lying about the extent of his knowledge of it, and neither option was good. Jon was now somewhat less inclined to believe the latter option, but if Martin was still unaware of the kind of thing he was, then new revelations regarding his nature might well lead him to re-evaluate his current stance on not wanting to kill anyone. Even if maliciousness somehow did not manifest itself, which seemed unlikely given what happened with every other supernatural phenomena Jon knew of, Martin was fully capable of being dangerous even without intending to be as such. Jon needed to know what they would be dealing with.

Asking Martin about it wouldn't be likely to produce any useful answers, though, so Jon would have to investigate that problem on his own. Something to keep in mind.

Gertrude, though… Jon would have to approach that carefully. Pushing too hard before had gotten him confined to his apartment.

First, Martin was worried about Jon's well-being, and therefore he could be expected to try to prevent Jon from taking risks. The tunnels were dangerous, that much was clear. Jon would have to provide some safeguards for himself to assuage Martin's fears. Come to think of it, that probably wouldn't be a bad idea just on principle. He had been woefully unprepared when he’d gone searching for Martin.

Second, Martin thought that they should get the police involved. Maybe that wasn't an entirely terrible idea, but not when the tapes were on the line. Jon would have to talk him out of that idea.

The first problem was easier to solve, so he would start with that.

Jon got up from the table, taking his plate and cup to the sink. Martin started a bit, looking up from the half-eaten pancake he'd been poking at. He didn't say anything, but Jon felt eyes on him as he washed the dishes and set them to dry. It made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

“Thank you for breakfast,” he muttered, before hurrying out of the kitchen.

If Martin said anything, Jon didn't hear it.

Another pointless and uninformative call to Elias, and then Jon unearthed his old printer. He needed to get working on a map. Hopefully he had enough ink and paper to manage what he required.

He fetched his laptop from the bedroom and set about finding all the maps he could of the area, road, sewer, satellite, topographical, and anything historical and nearby he could get his hands on. Blueprints, building plans, engineering drawings...

Jon's ears perked up when he heard Martin's sharp intake of breath. There was the sound of a swift burst of movement, and then the noise of his kitchen window sliding open. “ You can't be here! You know better!” Martin's voice hissed in a low whisper.

“... Martin, what is that?” Jon asked.

The window slammed shut. “Nothing!”

“Was that a spider, Martin?”

“No…”

“Martin.”

“...technically it was actually two spiders.”

Jon put his head on the desk and groaned.

“Look, I'm sorry. They just seem to… like me, now. They're harmless, I promise. And actually pretty cute. And I put them outside!”

“How many spiders have gotten into my home, Martin?”

“Well, um, do… do you mean just since I got here, or do you want me to count the ones that live here normally too?”

Jon groaned again.


	10. Chapter 10

Martin eventually finished in the kitchen and came back into the sitting room when Jon was taping together the edges of dozens of printed pages of maps, spreading them out over the floor.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I'm getting started,” Jon replied, pushing the coffee table out of the way to have more space. He tapped one page of the map. “We know that there are three entrances to the tunnels clustered together at the Institute: the hole that the worms came through, the hole that Tim made, and the trap door. Only one of them is a proper entrance any longer- they’ve probably sealed up the other two by now, anyway. But the other two, they were close enough to the Archives that they were able to be opened without any specialized construction equipment, which means that they were probably entrances in the past as well, just sealed up at some point. And if the Archives has sealed up entrances, it’s not impossible that other buildings in the vicinity may also contain entrances. Prentiss and the worms had to have gotten in there from somewhere, after all.

“This, over here,” Jon gestured at another page, “this is Pall Mall Street, where Mr. Silvana and Gerrard Keay encountered other, similar tunnels. I expect that the tunnels under the Archives extend at least to this point. And this is where the old Millbank Prison was located, which seems a likely candidate for also having a connection to the tunnels. This triangle of area provides a rough starting point for the area I should investigate.” Jon slapped his hand down on another stack of pages. “I have a bunch of reference pages for building plans and whatnot here, to help me with it.”

Martin looked over the strewn mess of papers. “Okay… why are you doing this?”

“I need to map out the tunnels. I have a few recollections of my two visits there, but trying to draw out the turns that I remember, it’s… it doesn’t really make any sense. I don’t know, it’s probably just because I was focused on different things at the time and didn’t bother trying to remember specific details that would be useful for cartography. I think that cross-referencing with known existing and historical infrastructure should give the best chance of untangling this knot. At least, short of going down to map them myself, which isn’t a possibility right now.” Jon glanced at Martin. “You spent a lot more time down there, and you… have better memories of making your way out of them than I do. You could help me?”

“Why do you need to map them out at all?” Martin asked.

“You mean, aside from the fact that a hostile entity has already used them to attack us? Having a lay of the land should prove immensely helpful when I go back down there again.”

“Go back? But they’re awful.”

Jon shrugged. “It isn’t as though that’s anything new. And… with the situation with Gertrude, we can’t really avoid going back there.”

“...what do you mean by that, Jon?” Martin asked.

“Well, we can’t just leave her down there,” Jon replied, diplomatically.

“That’s true, but that doesn’t mean _you_ have to go down there. I can just tell the police, and--”

“But you can’t go to the police, can you? It can’t be just an anonymous tip; you’ll need to show them where the body actually is, and they’ll ask too many questions that you can’t afford to answer.”

“I mean, they might not be _that_ thorough…” Martin mumbled.

“Maybe. I wouldn’t wager on it, though. How about this,” Jon offered, setting his papers down and getting up off of his knees. “You can show me where Gertrude is, and then afterwards, _I_ can tell the police where she is, and you won’t have to answer any questions that might expose you to the ECDC.”

Martin gave Jon a skeptical look. “You do remember that you have been literally unable to break the last agreement you made with me, right? Do you have any reason to think it will be different this time?”

“...damn,” Jon muttered.

“Why are you so dead set on cutting the police out of this, Jon? Don't you already have enough on your plate as it is? This kind of thing is their responsibility.”

“Because the police are useless! Gertrude has been dead for over a year and they have accomplished nothing.”

“I mean, it’s- it’s hardly their fault if they didn’t have enough evidence to do anything,” Martin replied.

“They had a gallon worth of bloody evidence all over Gertrude’s desk! They still couldn’t find the damn tunnels that were all of ten feet away from it!”

“Well, to be fair, neither did we…”

“ _We_ aren’t the ones whose job it is to investigate murders! And yet we’re still the ones doing a better job of it! At least you managed to find the body!”

“That was just blind luck; it’s not like I was _trying_ to find Gertrude.”

“That doesn’t change the facts! Gertrude disappeared and they did nothing. _You_ disappeared, and they are still doing nothing! Everyone thinks you're dead, and no one is even looking for you, Martin.”

Martin swallowed. “ _You_ looked for me.”

“That's because I'm the only one who seems to actually care about getting any answers! Not the police, and apparently not anyone else! Don’t you understand? All of us could die and they would only care if we died in a way that would be hard for them to explain away and ignore.”

“I don't… I don't think that's true. They have to care. They're the police, it's their job.”

“How many statements have you followed up on where the police were any help at all, Martin?” Jon asked.

“I… I mean, just because they weren't in those cases, it doesn't mean they _can't_ be helpful.”

Jon took a deep breath. “If the police get a hold of those tapes, the only thing they'll do is shove them away in some dusty corner. Even if they _did_ care at all about a year-old cold case connected with Magnus Institute, they just don't have the manpower or the background knowledge required to make a proper investigation of them.”

“It… it's still a crime scene, Jon. We can't just--”

“So following proper procedure is more important than having the tools to actually identify a murderer?” Jon demanded, clenching his fists.

Martin bit his lip, but he didn't seem inclined to back down.

Jon made an aggravated noise and stormed back to his desk. He flicked on his laptop and settled down to start making lists of items he might need or find use for down in the tunnels. Because he _was_ going to go back in there, with or without Martin’s help.

There was fifteen minutes or so of relative quiet, with a few rustles of papers behind Jon as Martin presumably looked at some of the print-outs. Jon did his best to ignore it. If Martin refused to be useful, then he could at least stay out of the way.

Then, “...Jon?”

“What is it, Martin?” Jon replied coldly, not looking up.

“Why is it so important to you? Why… I mean, I think- I’m pretty sure that tampering with a murder scene is an indictable offense. Even if you don’t have any faith in the police, why would you want to risk that?”

“Better in prison than dead,” Jon muttered.

“What?”

Jon sighed. “Martin, whoever murdered Gertrude, they killed the head archivist. And it certainly doesn't seem like the murder was unrelated to her job, given that it happened in the tunnels connected to the Archives, while she was surrounded by tapes. Whoever did it, they're probably still around the Institute.” _If not working there currently already._ “Who's to say that they won't decide to dispose of her replacement, too?”

Martin was quiet for a moment. “That sounds like a pretty good reason to stay out of the tunnels, Jon.”

Jon let out a humourless bark of a laugh. “Because it was so difficult for Prentiss to get out of the tunnels to try to kill me?”

“...right, fair point. But, I mean, if that is the case, isn’t that all the more reason to get the police involved? They’ve got to have better resources for figuring out this sort of thing. Not to mention actually dealing with a murderer.”

Jon sighed, shoulders slumping. “Well, it’s not as though _I_ can force _you_ to change your mind. If you’re insistent on handing all the information to the police, then... then I’m just going to come up with alternatives. Because I am not willing to stake my life on that.”

“I…” Martin trailed off. “I suppose we can decide on the best course of action when the week is over. Nothing either of us can really do until then.”

Jon made a noncommittal noise.

“But… I will help you with the mapping. If you want me to. It’s… You’re right, it’s a good idea to have a layout for it. On one condition.”

“What condition?” Jon asked warily.

“That you’ll actually take a break once in a while, Jon. Do something that isn’t work. Read a book, or, I don’t know, watch a movie or something. You’ve got Netflix on your laptop, right?”

“...no, actually.”

“You don’t have Netflix?”

“I don’t see the point of wasting my time with--”

“That’s a travesty. You can use my account. There’s some really good shows. Or, um, documentaries?”

“If you say so.”

“Okay, so I’ll help you this morning, and then after lunch, you can… well, you can do what you want. I won’t ask you to promise me anything. But if you don’t take a break until supper, then I won’t help you with the map anymore.”

“...thank you,” Jon said.

* * *

 

Martin had been good as his word, helping Jon sift through the data he collected and identifying buildings with basements that might be likely to intersect the tunnels. He hadn’t helped with drawing any potential tunnels themselves yet, but Jon still had time in this week to try to convince him.

And after lunch, Jon had begrudgingly let Martin log onto Netflix and show him the documentary section. Jon picked one on Kowloon.

Jon settled into his recliner to watch, and Martin stretched out on the sofa to continue reading one of Jon’s books that he had apparently borrowed. Or, judging from the glances that Jon kept feeling land on him intermittently, to make sure that Jon was actually watching and not getting up to some kind of work.

Regardless of that, though, it had actually been… nice, to forget some of the horrors of the world for a short while. Jon hadn’t thought he was capable of that anymore.

Eventually, Jon went to bed. Just as he was about to turn out the lights, he noticed something, lying there on his bedside table. The tape, the one that he was sure that he put under his mattress to hide from Martin, was somehow back in the recorder.


	11. Chapter 11

It had to have been Martin. There wasn't anyone else in his apartment, and Jon hadn't put the tape back.

But how? And why?

Martin hadn't gone into Jon's bedroom today. Jon was almost certain of it. It wasn't strictly impossible that he'd nipped inside when Jon had gone to the lavatory, but that didn't seem like enough time to find the tape, slot it back into the recorder, and return to the map work without Jon noticing. How would Martin even know that the tape was out of the recorder and hidden, let alone where Jon had stashed it?

Well, it depended on just how much the spiders liked Martin now, didn't it? There had definitely been things sneaking into his home. Could they be functioning as spies?

Or, as even more? Maybe Martin hadn't needed to go into Jon's room at all to do this.

… it would take a lot of spiders to move a cassette tape out from being wedged under a mattress.

Jon practically flung his mattress across the room, heart hammering. Instead of the seething black mass of horrible, twitching legs that he'd feared, there was nothing. Just his plain white bed skirt and box spring.

“What the- what was that, Jon? Are you all right?” Martin called from the sitting room.

“Fine. It's nothing,” Jon replied, trying to work up the nerve to check under the bed.

“...if you say so.”

“It's nothing,” Jon repeated under his breath, trying to convince himself. He grabbed his phone and turned on the torch function. He knelt down and peered under the bed.

There were a few clumps of dust, a handful of forgotten books, and, on closer inspection, a shriveled earwig carcass behind one of the legs of his bed. No spiders.

Were they hiding somewhere else?

Jon searched the rest of his bedroom and en suite. There had been a single long-legged spider lurking in the back of his closet, which Jon had crushed with extreme prejudice.

Nothing else. No skittering swarm of fanged malice. And even if the closet spider _had_ been spying on him, it didn't really have a proper line of sight to do so.

Martin hadn't had any way to know if or where Jon had hidden the tape. Martin hadn't had any means to retrieve and replace the tape today. Short of Martin having brainwashed him into revealing the location and forgetting the conversation and forgetting Martin going into his room, he supposed.

But that would have been a lot of effort, and for what purpose? To know that Jon had thought Martin was going to kill him? Jon had already said as much this morning.  For the purposes of psychological torment? That seemed far-fetched.

Martin had acted consistently (and infuriatingly) fretful over Jon. He'd seemed genuinely distressed about Jon's accusations. He'd said that he…

What would be the point of portraying that kind of persona, and apparently doing such a thorough job of wiping Jon's memories, just to leave behind obvious evidence of that kind of tampering? If Martin wanted Jon scared, he had a vast, vast range of considerably more efficient means to accomplish that.

It didn't make any sense.

But what other possibilities were there?

…well, that was a silly question. It was hardly as though Martin was the only supernatural element present in the world. There could be something else at play here. Something to do with the suffocating sensation of being watched every time he spoke into that very tape recorder…

Apparently, whatever it was, it wanted recordings of what had been happening since Jon had found Martin.

A part of him itched to see what had been captured by the tape so far. What might have been deemed important.

Instead, Jon stuffed the tape recorder in his sock drawer, then somehow managed to heave his mattress back onto his bed. It was apparently significantly heavier without the aid of adrenaline. He counted the stitches in his arm; the number was still unchanged. Finally, he turned off the light.

The nightmares tonight were interspersed with flickers of open graves and blood sprayed across linoleum, between the skittering, squirming masses that writhed over his skin.

Well, at least he was getting some variety.

* * *

Martin was quiet in the morning, serving up the scrambled eggs with a far-off expression. Jon wondered what he was thinking about. Asking him would no doubt once again lead to an interrogation about how Jon was doing, though, so Jon decided to leave it. Enjoy the peace while it lasted.

He'd taken a bite of the food when a thought occurred to him. He swallowed. “I should probably do some cooking,” he said.

“What?” Martin jerked out of whatever reverie he had been in. It took another second for him to process the words, and then he looked down at his own plate with a worried expression. “Is it bad?”

“No, it's fine. But the last time I checked, the job description of Archival Assistant didn't include “personal chef” as one of its duties. I shouldn't be expecting this of you.”

“Oh, I don't mind. It's nice, you know, having someone to take care of. I haven't had that sort of thing for a while.”

Jon thought about the countless cups of tea, the plates of biscuits, the constant nagging interruptions of Martin coming into his office to natter about resting or taking breaks or eating at regular times. “ You haven't?” he asked dryly.

“Nope. I mean, my landlord doesn't allow pets, so…” Martin shrugged.

Jon blinked. “... am I a pet?” he asked, warily.

“Wh- No! No, I didn't mean it like that! I just-” Jon watched with some interest as the blush crept up Martin's face before he made a strangled embarrassed noise and buried his face in his hands. “I'm just an idiot,” Martin mumbled into his palms.

“Hmn. Well, regardless. I could stand to pull my weight around here. I could make…” Jon considered what could possibly be left in his pantry. “...spaghetti?”

“Yeah, okay,” Martin mumbled, not lifting his head. “Sounds good.”

Jon let the conversation die, and continued eating his breakfast. Eventually he finished and took his dishes to the sink. Martin still hadn't moved.

“Same plan as yesterday?” Jon asked.

Martin started. “ Um, yes! Right. I'll be right with you, just a second.”

Jon wondered if Martin would be any help at all in this odd mood of his. He finished with his dishes and settled back down to the sprawl of papers that was beginning to devour the floor of his sitting room. There had been some promising engineering drawings of the Millbank Estate...

Martin emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later.  He sat down on the floor, a few feet away from Jon. “So. I've been… thinking, a lot, about what you said yesterday.”

Jon sighed. “Look, if you're going to give me another lecture on due process, then--”

“No, actually. The opposite.”

Jon went completely still. He would have held his breath too, if he hadn't needed it to ask, “The opposite?”

“I think… I think you're right. If there's someone out there who's a threat to you, then I- we need to figure out who it is. And having those tapes might be really important.”

“You're going to show me where they are?”

“After we get out of here, yeah. I still think we should report the murder, though. Just, after we take the tapes.”

“That's a dangerous proposition. If they're investigating, then they might figure out the tapes were removed, and who did it.”

“We'll just have to be careful then.”

“We're going to have to lie to the police. A lot.”

Martin shrugged. “I mean, I'm kind of already hiding from the law anyway, what's another handful of offenses?”

“You know, I don't think that being a spider monster is actually against the law,” Jon remarked.

“Well, maybe I'm illegal under one of those conventions against exotic creatures,” Martin replied.

“Ha!” Jon couldn't help the bubble of laughter that escaped his lungs. He blamed the excitement at the thought of having access to so much new information. He tamped it back down and cleared his throat. “Fair point. Fine, we'll get the police involved, but only after we've completely minimized our risk. Which means we're going to have to plan this very carefully...” Jon snatched up a pen and started furiously noting down the elements that needed to be accounted for and any potential workarounds that came to mind.

“...you're, uh, really smiling. Grinning, more like.”

“ Am I?” Jon asked absentmindedly, continuing to scribble on the paper. He didn't have time to feel his face, he had plans to make.

“It's kind of creepy?”

“You're one to talk.”

Jon finally finished spewing all his thoughts into the page, and slapped it down on the ground. “Okay, so we'll…” Jon trailed off, a thought occurring to him. “Wait. Hold on a moment.”

“Okay?”

Jon got off the floor and stalked over to his bedroom. He yanked open the sock drawer.

There was nothing inside but socks. The recorder was gone. It couldn't be gone. It had to be somewhere. Jon upended the drawer. Still no sign of it. Where the hell--

Jon looked up. It was back on his bedside table. And it was on. Of course.

“I don't think so,” Jon said, picking it up and turning it off. Then he ejected the tape and took it back into the sitting room.

Jon pressed the tape into Martin's hands. “Here. Hold onto this. Don't let it out if your sight.”

“Jon, what?”

“I don't think that having this recorded is the best idea.”

“Um, okay. But does it really need to be watched?”

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R.I.P. George the closet spider


	12. Chapter 12

“Right, so if we’re going to get the police involved in this, then we can’t leave a trail for them to follow. The Institute has cameras, and that footage is most certainly going to be requisitioned by the police. We can’t be seen hauling suspicious boxes out of the tunnels. We need to find a different entrance. We can try to identify likely buildings for that now, based on what architectural clues we have available. Ideally, something abandoned or at least in a secluded location, since we’re probably going to have to break in. And we’re almost certainly going to need to come and go from that location multiple times, so it can’t be an obvious break-in,” Jon said, pacing back and forth what area left in his sitting room that was not occupied by papers, furniture, or Martin.

“Why multiple times?” Martin asked.

“We’re going to be approaching the tunnels from a completely different starting position, and likely from much, much further away. Figuring out how to get near enough to the Archives that you would be able to navigate to Gertrude is going to be… involved. Multiple excursions are probably going to be needed to make progress.”

Martin winced. “Right. Maybe it would be easier to go from the inside out, instead of from the outside in? Breaking… breaking into a building seems kind of risky, especially since we won’t know for sure if there even is an entrance to the tunnels in any given place. If we went in the tunnels and found a different way out...”

Jon shook his head. “The problem would be even worse in reverse, assuming we could even identify a likely area to try to get to the surface. We’d be breaking into some random basement completely blindly.”

“...yeah, that could be bad. What if we just… moved the tapes somewhere else? In the tunnels? Somewhere where they wouldn’t be likely to be found by the police? Then we wouldn’t need to find another entrance.”

“That… that could work.” Jon paused, turning that idea over in his head. A part of him shrieked in protest at the idea of leaving such valuable information in an unsecured location, but he shoved it down. It did seem to make the most sense, logistically-- oh no. “...there’s a problem.”

“What’s wrong with it? I think it’s a pretty good plan.”

“It… is,” Jon admitted. “But you’re not going to want to follow it, unfortunately.”

“Why wouldn’t I--”

“Because I would have to do it alone. And that’s assuming that you’d be able to convey where I could find Gertrude without physically showing me where she was.”

“What? No. There’s no reason why you’d have to go alone.”

“There is. You cannot be seen going into the Institute’s trapdoor.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll be the one making the report to the police. That is going to put me under a lot of scrutiny, which is something you can’t afford. Having footage of you going into the tunnels again is going to raise suspicions. Especially if you’re accompanying me.”

“That… that makes sense.”

“And I don’t suppose that you’re going agree to have me go into the tunnels alone?” Jon asked.

“I’m only agreeing to any of this because I want to  _ avoid _ you being murdered, Jon.”

Jon sighed. “I thought as much. So, our next best bet is finding another way in, and then another way to Gertrude. We’ll want to determine a route all the way back to the Institute as well, actually. Because I will need to go down into the tunnels alone on camera again at least once, to explain when I found Gertrude’s body. Ideally, I should go several times before reporting it, as if I had decided to go exploring. You can come around from the other way to meet me, if you absolutely must.”

“...I suppose that will have to work.”

“I  _ will _ remind you that I have already managed to successfully explore the tunnels alone without being murdered,” Jon pointed out.

“Oh? Was that the time that you stumbled across a monster that trapped you in your apartment for days on end?” Martin asked.

“...that was  _ your _ fault, not mine.” Jon grumbled.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t make you come find me.”

Jon made a disgruntled noise. “Moving on. We will have another angle of attack for this problem when we get back to the Institute, because Prentiss had to have gotten into the tunnels from somewhere. If we can find any information on areas aside from the Institute where she or the worms were seen in the last four months, then we may be able to find the entrance she used. That way we definitely know there is a path to the Institute, as well. To that end, we’re going to need an explanation for where you’ve been for the last week. I thought that you could claim that you’d gone into hiding because you hadn’t known Prentiss was dead, and you were afraid that she would follow you like she did before.”

“Er. Slight problem with that. There’s, um, a video of me following you out of the tunnels. When you went to go find me?” Martin said.

“...shit.”

“We, we could just say that you found me but that we didn’t tell anyone else because I assumed you would inform the others and you assumed that I would inform the others?”

“I’ve been calling Elias every morning to demand information about your whereabouts.”

“...you did do that. Why did you do that? Why would you  _ keep  _ doing that?”

“I was trying to throw off suspicion!” Jon exclaimed.

“By lying and being super suspicious?!”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time!”

Martin was quiet for a moment, biting lip. “...all right. Then, I’ll just say that I got really lost in the tunnels but eventually found my own way out, and I didn’t come back or contact anyone because of stress and panic and a burning need to not be anywhere with  _ worms _ . Had a bit of a breakdown, really. I came back after I stabilized some. Then I'll ask to be granted some retroactive mental health leave, and that should about cover it. Probably no one saw the footage of us getting out of the tunnels, because then Elias would have told you, right? The police are going to see it, probably, but we're not explaining my absence to the police, just the Institute. If Elias does find out and call us out about it, then we just lied about you finding me because you weren’t supposed to be wandering around in the tunnels the day after you were maimed by worms, and you were worried about being reprimanded or maybe fired. All the rest of it, though, that was true. I just had the breakdown after the two of us parted ways. ...oh, and we should probably stagger our arrivals to the Institute at least a day apart.”

“That… that seems plausible. You’re… good at lying,” Jon said.

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’ve been like  _ this _ for four months now and no one noticed, Jon,” Martin pointed out, gesturing to himself. Then he shrugged. “Though it does help, a bit, when people tend to overlook you.”

“Hmn,” Jon replied, still feeling a bit unsettled by this realization. He glanced down at his scribbled list. “All right, next point. Once we find the entrance, we’ll want to be able to map out the tunnels that we explore, so we have an idea of how close we are to the Institute, and if we’re headed in the right direction. GPS isn’t going to work, so we’ll have to go with more rudimentary methods. A compass might work, assuming there isn’t external interference. Worth a try, at least. If not, we may just have to make do with keeping track of turns. We’ll want a surveyor’s wheel to help us keep the distances straight. Anything else?”

“Um, well, I saw stairs in the tunnels? We can’t assume everything is on one level. We should probably try to keep track of what kind of elevation the tunnels are at, in case we end up starting on a different floor.” Martin added.

“Hm. Good point. That’s a bit trickier. We should bring a level, so we can take note of any significant slopes to the passages. Just having a tape measure and knowing the street-level elevation of the building should let us work out a rough estimation of what elevation the tunnel starts at. We’ll need to visit a hardware store.” Jon jotted down the list of items. “Moving on. Fingerprints. You weren’t wearing any gloves when Prentiss attacked. When you opened the door to Gertrude’s room, did you just touch the doorknob, or did you also touch the frame or the door? Did you touch anything in the room itself? We’re going to want to wipe down the areas you might have touched, but not anywhere else, in case the killer left anything behind. We’ll want to use gloves when we take the tapes, obviously.”

“I’m pretty sure it was just the doorknob. My other hand had the torch, and I didn’t stick around for long.”

“Okay, good,” Jon noted that down.

“We’ll need somewhere to store the tapes as well.”

Jon lifted his gaze from the paper. “Hmm? I can just keep them here.”

“You just said you were going to be under suspicion after you reported the murder. I’m pretty sure we shouldn’t keep stolen evidence in your apartment during that.”

He had a point. “All right. We’ll want to get a storage locker, then. In your name, ideally. Make it a little harder to trace...”

* * *

After a period of about ten minutes where Jon was busy shuffling through the stacks of print-outs and didn’t say anything, Martin spoke up.

“...So, um, do I need to keep holding onto this? It’s going to make helping sort of difficult.”

“What?” Jon looked up. Martin was still holding the cassette tape. “Oh, no. We’ve talked through most of the incriminating bits already. You can put it down. Just, be careful what you say.”

“Why, is it listening?” Martin asked, with a little huff of laughter.

“Exactly.”

“...right…” Martin said, setting the tape on the coffee table.

* * *

Jon dove back into the work, modifying and expanding the list of considerations as he went along. They had three more days to hash out the plan; after that, Martin would be leaving and it would be more difficult to find the time and privacy to collaborate. It was important to get as much done as possible.

Martin finally all but dragged him kicking and screaming into the kitchen for lunch. Well, he put his hands on top of the papers that Jon was working on, at least. “ It's half past two, Jon. You need to eat.”

“No I don't,” Jon replied, trying to peer around Martin’s fingers.

“Yes, you do. Come on.”

“The plan is to stop working after lunch. I’m still working.”

“The point of it is so that you’ll actually stop working, not that you’ll skip lunch.”

“That wasn’t specified.”

Martin sighed. “Look, I’m ordering pizza. And when it gets here, I'm not helping you any more today. And if you want my help tomorrow…”

Jon muttered a curse under his breath. “Fine.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some art of this chapter now: <http://mira-eyeteeth.tumblr.com/post/184079025351/jon-and-martin-are-planning-crimes-together-a>

After lunch, Jon allowed Martin to cajole him into watching some comedic nonsense that had been promised to be ‘really good’. Jon suffered through two episodes before the burning need for some  _ actual  _ information drove him back to the selection menu.

A documentary about the professional sport doping scene proved to be reasonably interesting, even if it seemed a bit sensationalized.

The sky outside was starting to grow dark when Jon finished with the film and stretched with a sigh.

“...um, Jon? Did you bring the tape recorder out?” Martin asked.

Jon looked over at the coffee table, where the tape recorder and the cassette were fitted together once again. He sighed. “No, I didn't.”

“But  _ I _ didn't… wait, you mean it's  _ actually _ listening to us?!”

Jon tilted his head to one side. “That's what I said before, wasn't it?”

“Yeah, but I thought you were just… um, well, that isn't important. Why is it doing that?”

Jon shrugged. “I don't know. So far, it has shown no indication that it is going to devour me, shoot me, or imprison me, so I'm putting it low on my list of things to be concerned about.” Jon closed his laptop and set it aside. “I offered to make supper, didn't I? Spaghetti?”

“What, so you're just going to ignore this?”

Jon gave Martin a meaningful look.”I am currently sharing my apartment with a spider monster. A haunted tape recorder isn't my first priority.”

“... yeah, okay,” Martin mumbled. “ Do you want me to get anything for supper? I could fetch some meat for bolognese sauce. And maybe some garlic bread?”

“Yes, that sounds fine.”

Martin was out of the apartment and Jon was busy digging out a pasta pot from the bowels of his cupboards before it occurred to Jon that sending Martin out to find meat might be a very bad idea.

A horrible image of a smiling Martin bringing back a severed, web-encased limb shoved its way to the front of Jon's mind, and he dashed for his phone.

His call was picked up halfway through the second ring. “Jon? What's wrong, are you all right?” Martin’s anxious voice asked from the other end. In the background, Jon could hear the low chatter of other people's voices. No screams, but Martin could stop those from happening, couldn't he?

“Where are you?” Jon asked.

“Just in line for the cashier, but I can leave right now. I'll be back there in three minutes, just hold on--”

Jon sighed. “No, it's fine. Pay for the groceries, then come back here. Don't… don't make any detours though, all right?”

“Are you sure? You're all right?” There were no wet, tearing sounds or gurgling gasps in the background, just the usual clamor of a grocery store.

“Yes. Fine. I just… wanted to know when to put the water on to boil.”

“Oh. Well, the line isn't too long; I should be back within ten minutes. I also got garlic bread, so preheat the oven too.” 

“Right. Thanks.”

The meat that Martin brought back was neatly packaged in plastic and styrofoam, with a sticker labeling it as ground beef. 

Once it was finished cooking, the bolognese sauce still looked too much like blood for Jon's comfort. He wished that he had offered to cook something else. But Martin would be difficult again, if Jon didn’t eat.

“Martin. You... care about my well-being. What about other people's?” Jon asked, as he and Martin sat down to the table.

“Hm? Oh, well, I love my mum, too. Obviously. I mean, you kind of have to love your mum, don't you? I haven't really fancied anyone else for a while now, though. I guess the last guy was--”

“No. No, that's not what I meant. We'll be going back to the Archives in a few days. You aren't going to... hurt anyone there, are you?”

“What? No! Of course not! I don't want to hurt anyone in the Institute!”

“Okay. Good. You will tell me if that changes, right?”

“I don't see why it would, but, sure. I'll give you advance warning before I decide to go all redrum on everyone, I promise,” Martin replied, a touch bitterly.

“Martin. You've read the statements. You know how this tends to go.”

Martin swallowed. “I… I mean, there's no reason it  _ has  _ to go like that, right? People come to us when things go wrong; there might be totally harmless things out there that just never get reported. I've been like this for a while now and I feel fine. It'll be fine. I won't hurt people.”

“...I hope that you're right,” Jon said.

* * *

 

Jon checked his email after the meal. No replies from either Sasha or Tim; not much of a surprise there. The Archives must still be unstaffed. Jon did not look forward to the mess he would face when he returned. At least it couldn’t be worse than it was when he had first started.

There was an email from Hannah. It was unenlightening. There were a few colonies of spiders that had taken up residence in the more disused corners of Artefact Storage, but that seemed mainly to be due to the neglect of those areas. The janitorial staff apparently refused to go into Artefact Storage. Jon couldn’t blame them. Nothing seemed to be attracting spiders in any large numbers. There were a few items that had spider or web motifs to them, but Hannah did not know any specifics about why those items were in storage or if the motifs were anything more than aesthetic. The background information of those items were, of course, explained in statements that could be found in the Archives. Somewhere. Dammit.

Aside from that, Hannah was pretty sure that one or two of the Leitners they had locked away were related to spiders, or at least creepy-crawlies of some kind, as she put it.

Jon had no interest in ever interacting with any spider-related Leitners again.

He would just have to keep an eye out for any statements involving spiders, when he returned to the Archives. And in Gertrude’s tapes, once he gained access to those.

Jon sent back a perfuctory thank you to Hannah.

* * *

 

The next few days settled into something of a routine.

Work in the mornings, pushing as far into the afternoon as Jon could get away with before Martin wheedled him into having lunch. Then, pointless time wasting in the form of sitting around consuming media until supper. Jon contemplated on more than one occasion pushing the boundaries of the ad-hoc agreement that he and Martin had set up-- Martin was invested in the plan now, surely he wouldn’t back out now just because Jon didn’t rest enough. But, no, Jon was too close to his goal to risk throwing it away for the sake of a few more hours of work in the next few days. He could put up with the attention and the fretting and the tea and the suggestions about what kinds of shows he might find interesting, at least for the next few days. 

And finally, it was the evening of the seventh day.

From what Jon could remember, he had returned to his apartment around 3:45 am, the night he had gone to find Martin. Assuming that the week of the contract came into effect once he crossed the threshold, Jon should be able to leave once it reached that hour again.

Jon laid in bed, sleepless, and watched the time tick down. Two hours. One hour. Thirty minutes. Ten. Five.

One.

Jon shot out of bed and yanked his bedroom door open, needing to know. He didn’t even bother turning the light on.

Which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake, because something stirred in the shadows of his sitting room, a form that looked like it had far too many limbs to be anything human. It shifted, and Jon counted more than two spots within the center of the mass where the dim light from the streetlamps outside was reflected with a shining gleam.

“Oh. Jon,” Martin’s voice said, and the oppressive, looming presence of something huge and predatory faded. Jon blinked and the monstrous outline resolved itself into Martin, half sitting up on the sofa, one arm slung over the back of the sofa and the other tangled in the sheets he had wrapped himself in.  “It’s the middle of the night. What are you doing up?”

“I- ah…” Jon croaked. He swallowed; his mouth was suddenly dry as bone. He desperately tried to convince himself it had all just been his mind playing tricks on him. “It… It’s been a week.”

“Oh! Right!” Martin lurched up off of the sofa. “We should see if you can get out. Do you need any help?”

“I remember how to walk, Martin,” Jon replied.

“Okay.”

There was a moment of awkward silence as Jon stood motionless in the doorway of his bedroom, trying to convince his quivering legs to move him forward. It was just Martin. Martin had been here for a week. Martin wasn’t going to hurt him.

“Um…”

“You don’t have to come with me,” Jon said, finally pushing off from the doorframe.

“All right,” Martin replied, and no footsteps followed Jon down the entranceway and towards the front door. Jon wasn’t sure if he would have been able to keep himself from breaking into a run, if they had.

He unlocked his front door and pulled it open. The light from the corridor spilled into the apartment. There was a moment of panicked thoughts flitting through his mind, what if he still couldn’t leave, what if he was stuck forever, what if Martin really was planning on-- Jon shoved the worries down, and stepped forward into the corridor.

He passed over the threshold without a moment’s pause. The relief was instantaneous, like a weight falling from his shoulders. He could do as he pleased. His body seemed to be well and truly  _ his  _ once more. He let out a shaky little huff of a laugh, slumping against the wall beside his doorway. “It worked!’

“That's great!” Martin peeked out into the entranceway of the apartment, just barely visible from the corridor. “Do you want to, um, go out and celebrate or something? Shake off the cabin fever? Oh, there's not going to be much… I think there's a 24-hour convenience store down the way?”

“I… no, I'm actually quite tired. Perhaps in the morning, when there is more open,” Jon replied.

“Yeah, okay. That makes sense. I'm… I'm glad you're free again, Jon. I'm really sorry you had to endure this.”

Jon shrugged. “It's over now. I'm going back to bed.”

“Okay.” Martin moved out of Jon's way as he went back to his bedroom and shut the door. Jon was asleep almost as soon as he laid down on the bed.

* * *

 

The sound of Jon’s phone ringing woke him. He fumbled for it, and answered. “Hello?”

“I have good news, Jon. Martin has returned, alive and well,” Elias said.

Jon immediately sat up in bed. Martin had left already? “He has? I’ll be right there.”

“No. You’re still in recovery. If he can still remember what happened a week ago, then he will remember it when you come back, too. Get your statement then.”

“But I need--”

“To rest, Jon. Oh, and Martin wanted me to tell you that he’s very sorry for worrying you. Apparently he just needed some time away from the Institute. I have already taken efforts to impress upon him that the next time he wishes to disappear on us, he had best provide notice for it. Hopefully this sort of thing does not happen again.”

“Well, I'm not sure what else I expected from Martin,” Jon replied wryly. 

“A modicum of professionalism would not go amiss.”

Jon winced. “Yes, of course. I apologize; I am supposed to be responsible for the conduct of the Archival Staff. When I return I will do my best to manage them properly.”

“That is all I ask. Goodbye, Jon," Elias said, and ended the call.


	14. Chapter 14

Jon just sat there for a moment, considering. He had expected Martin to stay until the morning, when they could go over the plan one last time before going their separate ways.

To be honest, he’d half-expected to have to physically push Martin out the door in order to get him to leave.

Perhaps Martin had never wanted to stay, and only did so out of some sense of obligation? It seemed unlikely; if Martin was telling the truth about being unaware of his abilities, then he would not have had any time to come up with a firm code of ethics regarding their use.

Or maybe staying here had just changed Martin's mind at some point. Jon was aware that he wasn't the most pleasant person to be around. Perhaps being exposed to that for an extended period had finally taken the rose-tinted glasses off Martin's eyes, made him rethink his ill-advised crush.

...that could be bad, given how much of Jon’s plan (and potentially his continued existence) relied on Martin’s continued goodwill. But what could Jon even do about it, if it were the case? Jon hadn’t the faintest idea why Martin had even latched onto him in the first place. Trying to be… loveable, or something, would almost certainly only result in a spectacular disaster, especially given how suspicious Martin became any time Jon acted amiably.

The best bet, then, was to continue to watch for additional signs of animosity and try to prepare an exit strategy for that eventuality. Probably something he should have been keeping in mind from the start.

Jon got out of bed and went out into the sitting room. As expected, Martin was gone. His shopping bag of charity shop clothes was gone. The pillow and sheet he usually left folded on the arm of the sofa were also gone.

Jon idly wondered where those had went. Martin had probably taken the clothes with him, but the sheet?

He supposed that it didn't really matter.

In any case, Martin had done his best to erase the signs of his presence, and Jon's apartment felt… different.

Which was obviously ridiculous. If anything, it should feel  _ normal _ again, the ever-expanding pile of research material on his sitting room floor nonwithstanding. There was no reason why he should feel this aware of how much bigger his apartment felt, without another presence filling it.

Probably it was just the lingering hyper-alertness that he’d been pushed into, trying to keep track of something obviously not human lurking within his home.

Well, at least his dining chair could now go back to where it belonged, now. Along with the knife, which had remained in his bedroom mostly because it had felt too awkward to bring it out to return it to the drawer while Martin had been present.

And it was finally blessedly  _ quiet _ .

Jon turned back to grab his dining chair. Might as well put things back to normal now. He would forget to do it, if he started on research first.

When he went into the kitchen, he noticed that Martin had left a note on the table.

_ Hi Jon, _

_ Sorry, I took a little longer leaving than I should have. I don’t know if you noticed, but you might have still been awake, and if so, sorry. I should have prepared better for when the week was up. I had to take a bit to get all my things together, and then I realized that I shouldn’t be leaving you with dirty sheets, so I went down to the laundry room to wash the things you lent me. Thank you for those, by the way. I’m not sure if I said that before. It’s all back in the linen closet now. I hope I didn’t startle you when I came back in to return them. _

_ Anyway, I’m going back to the Institute. I’ll tell Elias what we agreed on, and then I’ll work on getting everything back in order for when you come back. Don’t rush on coming back if you’re not feeling well! _

_ I’ll also see if I can find any information on where Prentiss went in the last few months. _

_ I’ll be locking up and pushing the key back through the letterbox, so check the front entranceway for your key. _

_ Don’t forget the leftovers in the refrigerator. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Martin _

Jon read the note again. Well, it certainly didn’t  _ seem _ like Martin was any less fretful over Jon than he had been since the start. But why the apologies?

Had Martin really expected Jon to throw him out of the apartment at four in the morning?

...the only agreement they had come to was that Martin had wanted to stay until Jon could leave, and that Jon had been willing to allow that. There hadn’t been any discussion about arrangements after that point. Jon would have thought that not having to leave in the dead of night would have been obvious, but apparently not.

Well, what was done was done. Jon would have prefered to have firmed up the plans one last time before Martin left, but if he was honest with himself, most of the agitation he was feeling was simply because Martin was now in the Archives, and Jon wasn’t.

As much as Jon hated to admit it, it did make sense for Martin to go back to the Institute first. The longer Martin stayed “missing”, the more likely it was that he would have to answer inconvenient questions. Martin wasn’t the one recovering from recent wounds. Martin would have to leave the apartment when Jon did anyway. Martin was better at lying.

But Jon didn’t have to like it. He didn’t have to like Martin getting up to things where Jon couldn’t keep an eye on him. He didn’t have to like the idea of someone else riffling through the statements when he wasn’t there. 

Maybe Martin had left so quickly to head off any attempts Jon might have made to get to the Institute first. Jon wouldn’t put it past him.

In any case, Martin was there now, and Jon was still here. He couldn’t really afford the extra scrutiny that might be brought down on him if he explicitly went against Elias’ orders (again), and Martin and he had agreed to stagger their arrival times. Jon couldn't even really communicate with him via email or phone, at least not about anything important. Those methods of communication left too much evidence behind and they were too easy to intercept. He would have to wait until at least tomorrow.

Which meant he was still stuck here. Jon sighed. He took a slice of cold pizza from the refrigerator and went back to the sitting room to pore over the notes.

He was midway through checking the business hours of the establishments in high-potential areas when he realized that he didn't have to stay  _ here _ .

He couldn't go to the Institute, yet, but there was plenty to be done outside of there.

It took him ten minutes to get into clothes fit for the public, scribble down a list of hardware supplies and promising addresses, and fetch his key from the entranceway in front of his door. Then he was out, into the world for the first time in what felt like ages.

Now, if he was going to be using the hardware supplies while committing crimes, then he would have to be careful about how he went about obtaining them. With cash, then, and splitting the purchases over several different stores. The tape measure, surveyor’s wheel, and level were all innocuous enough purchases, but the others would be more suspicious, especially combined. He would want a sledgehammer, for the purposes of breaking down any promising walls that might be hiding tunnel entrances. A prybar, for prying up any trap doors they might come across. And bolt cutters, if they had to break into a place that was locked up. That would require several trips back and forth to his home, to accomplish in as inconspicuous a fashion as possible.

He would also want to pick up a decent compass, as well as some graphing paper and other cartographical supplies, but those would be from other stores and shouldn't cause any raised eyebrows.

Once he was done with the supply runs, he could go and scope out the areas where tunnel entrances seemed likely. See what kind of traffic could be expected around the area. Ideally, he wanted to find somewhere quiet and isolated- possibly somewhere people instinctively avoided.

Although, it didn’t seem as though the entrances to the tunnels near the Institute or Pall Mall or presumably around the Millbank area acted to dissuade people from being around, so Jon couldn’t bet on that. He supposed that if people actually had some kind of subconscious sense of the supernatural, then they were absolute rubbish at listening to it. They would probably have fewer real statements in the Archives, otherwise.

* * *

 

Jon returned to his apartment, with its pile of incriminating tools leaning against the far corner of the sitting room, later in the evening. He collapsed onto the sofa; his legs were aching and his half-healed wounds were throbbing. He had spent too long wandering the streets, and now his body was making him pay for it.

The effort had been wasted; the triangle of space between the Institute, Pall Mall, and Milbank was in Chelsea, which wasn't exactly the neighbourhood for conveniently abandoned isolated warehouses or other places which could be broken into without attention. Worse, most of the buildings in the area were residential, which meant they would likely be occupied, even at night.

Jon had hoped that the situation would look different when he was actually in the area, but that didn't seem to be the case. Jon grumbled and slumped further on the sofa.

Did they really need to break in? Martin could just knock on a door and ask to be let inside… No. No, Jon really shouldn't to encourage Martin to act any less human than he already did. And going about that way would still leave witnesses to them going into the tunnels. Maybe Martin could make then forget, but even if he did, Jon didn't know how long something like that could be effective for. He definitely didn't want to entertain any other methods of removing witnesses, not when he couldn't be certain of how far Martin might go.

He could try expanding the search area to less savory neighbourhoods, but he had no proof that the tunnels even extended that far. It could be an utter waste of time.

Millbank was right next to the Thames. Maybe there was some kind of entrance that could be accessed down by the river? Then he wouldn't have to break in to a building… But what were the chances of a door to the tunnels being out in the open and not already having been discovered by every urban explorer from here to Piccadilly?

Actually, it wasn't impossible that urban explorers had come across an entrance to the tunnels. It couldn't hurt to check some message boards and within the Archives, when he got back.

Jon tried to sit up to fetch his laptop, but was forced back down to the sofa by another wave of pain.

Jon cursed under his breath and pulled out his phone, using it to order some curry for supper and then scrolling through various urban exploration blogs and message boards.

He went to bed after making quick work of the delivered curry.

* * *

 

The next morning, his body was one big protesting ache. He shouldn't have spent ten hours wandering the streets of London while covered in still-healing wounds.

The stiffness in his limbs was bad enough that just making it to the lavatory was an ordeal; going all the way to the Institute just wasn't feasible. Even if he could hobble his way there, Martin would be waiting for him. Visibly limping into work would be a great way to make Martin force him back to the apartment again, and Jon couldn't afford to lose another week, or more.

Speaking of wounds and Martin… Jon looked down at his left arm. He had been leaving it uncovered, out of fear of what might happen if it were left out of sight. The thin line and tiny stitches were barely visible unless you knew what you were looking for. But if someone did notice… well, it didn't really look anything like a normally sutured cut. Having a reasonable explanation for what it was would be difficult, especially if anyone in the Institute noticed it. Poking around in supernatural mysteries is what they did.

He would have to hide it, when he went back to the Archives. A shirt with long sleeves would work, something that was loose enough that he could push up the sleeve to check on the stitches when he was alone. It wasn't ideal, but it seemed like the best compromise available. Jon would just have to hope that nothing terrible would happen.

It was a concern for tomorrow, in any case. Jon resigned himself spending the majority of today in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I promise next chapter will contain actual interaction.


	15. Chapter 15

He went to return to the Institute on morning of the third day of his regained freedom. Well, more like the afternoon. Jon wasn't going to ask Elias for permission to return, so entering the building well past the time Elias was likely to arrive should give Jon the best chance of getting down to the basement undetected.

He would be taking the tape recorder with him, but he needed to leave the tape cassette in his apartment. It had too much incriminating and inconvenient information on it; Jon couldn't afford to let it be stumbled across by anyone in the Institute. Feeling like an idiot, he told the recorder “Look, I'll get a fresh tape when we get back to the Archives. Leave this one here. I promise that nothing interesting is going to happen on my commute.”

Hoping that would placate whatever thing was listening to him, Jon ejected the tape and put it in the drawer of his bedside table.

The plan worked; he managed to get to the Archives with an empty tape recorder and no more than a passing “hello” from Rosie.

Martin was there, as expected. He was carrying a box full of what appeared to be miscellaneous papers, which he very nearly dropped when he spotted Jon. “Oh! You're here! How- how are you feeling?”

“As well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” Jon replied, striding over to where they kept the spare tapes and slotting one into the recorder.

“That's good. I- I'm sorry for disappearing, it was really unprofessional of me, not to let anyone know. I didn't even think about that, not at the time, I just… Well, after the attack, I kind of...”

Jon felt a little lurch of unease in the pit of his stomach. Martin's words sounded true, true enough to give him a fleeting worry that  _ this  _ Martin really had been missing for a week, and whatever had been in his apartment had only left because the other had shown up at the Institute. The thought was dismissed easily enough, but that still left the uneasy reminder of how seamlessly Martin could lie, glancing up from the floor to Jon with such apparently guileless eyes. 

“You can make the explanation for your actions in your statement,” Jon said, clicking the recorder on.

“Right. Okay. Statement of Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant of the Magnus Institute, regarding the attack on the Institute by the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss, and his subsequent time in the tunnels…”

Martin launched into a near word-for-word recount of his previous statement, right up to the scream.

“And then I heard the scream. It was… It was awful. I don't know if the tunnels distorted it somehow, or if I just… Well, they told me afterwards that it was the sound that Prentiss and the worms made, when they died. But I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that it was the worst thing I had ever heard, and I had to get away from it. So, I ran. Got myself even more lost in the process, if that was possible…”

Something in the pit of Jon’s stomach twisted, listening to Martin lay out the second half of his statement. It was a perfectly plausible account, all things considered. Martin had clearly put some thought into giving a statement which provided enough detail to seem convincing to anyone listening to it, all the while skirting any information involving Gertrude, or Martin’s current situation, or the conspiracy between the two of them. It was just the kind of thing to add to the statements involving the Prentiss incident without leaving evidence that might prove inconvenient later.

And it was  _ wrong.  _ It felt wrong, recording something like this to tape when he knew perfectly well that it would record just fine on his laptop. Part of him wanted to demand the truth, which was idiotic. He already knew the truth. This didn't change it. This was nothing, just a performance to keep up appearances. It didn't matter what he recorded it on. Jon suppressed the gnawing unease.

Martin seemed to be wrapping it up. “I'm not really sure how I got out of the tunnels, to be honest. Everything went a bit… funny, once I’d been down there for a few hours. At one point I realized I’d actually been stumbling around in the dark. I don’t know how long for. I thought it must have been because my torch batteries had died, but actually flicking the switch turned the light back on, so I guess I must have turned it off at some point? I don’t think I was all there. I’m not sure if it was the tunnels themselves, or just the stress and carbon dioxide and maybe the dehydration. But eventually I think I must have found some stairs and gotten out? I couldn’t tell you where it was, though. Sorry. I’m pretty sure I was wandering the streets for a while without even noticing the difference, right up until the point when I almost got hit by a car. That brought me back to reality a bit. And after that, all I wanted to do was go  _ home _ . I didn't want to have to even think about worms or about tunnels or about terror and death and… And I thought that if I just shut it all out, closed my eyes and ignored it, that it would go away. Stupid, I guess. But I wasn't exactly in the best of states at the time. So, anyway, that's why I kind of dropped off the face of the earth for a while. Sorry.  I only really started feeling stable enough to come back to work a few days ago. So, that's what I did. I've been working to put the Archives back in order since then,” Martin said, finally letting the mad rush of words slow to a stop.

“Thank you, Martin. That should do.” Jon set the recorder aside.

“Okay. So, um, I should give you updates about the current state of the Archives. I cleaned up your office first. There was a lot of plaster dust in there, probably from the builders fixing up the wall. But it should be fit for you to work in again, now. I've been working to put the files back in order and catalogue everything that we lost or that went missing. I'm just about done; I'll give you the report about it soon. Is there anything else you need? Can I get you some tea?”

“No, I should be fine,” Jon replied, and left Martin to go into his office.

It looked surprisingly similar to the way it had been before the attack. Cleaner, even. The wall had been completely repaired; he couldn't even tell where the spot was, where the worms had come pouring through in a wave of squirming filth. Jon shivered reflexively at that thought, and looked away from the wall.

A few of the case file boxes were gone- probably the ones that Martin had been hiding fire extinguishers in. A few more looked a bit crumpled from where Tim had presumably fallen into them. The desk was a mess, but it was the kind of mess that Jon normally made while working. It seemed like Martin had left it as it was, rather than tidy up and risk disturbing the order that Jon had arranged his notes in.

The floor was swept clean, the shelves dusted.

It was almost pristine, all except for the two cobwebs lurking in the further corners of his office.

There wasn't any plaster dust in the webs, so Martin hadn't merely neglected to clean them up. They were new. There was no sign of the inhabitants of those webs, but just the reminder of the skulking, skittering things made Jon's skin crawl and his arm itch. He rolled up a scrap sheet of paper and used it to destroy the webs, casting the entangled cylinder into the trash afterwards. Then he pushed up his sleeve and checked his cut. It still looked the same. The itching was probably just psychosomatic.

Only then did he feel comfortable enough to settle at his desk and start tackling the paperwork in front of him.

There was a knock on the door an hour or so later. Jon tugged at his sleeve, making sure his arm was covered. No sense in being sloppy. “Come in.”

Martin opened the door, carrying a cup of steaming tea in one hand while the other fumbled with a stack of papers and the doorknob. He managed to come inside without dumping the papers on the floor, and set the tea down next to Jon. Then he shuffled through the papers.

“Right, I finished cataloguing the inventory. Well, as much as I could, at least. We still have a ridiculous number of unsorted files and statements, so it was kind of difficult to know for sure what's gone missing from something that's never been accounted for, you know? But, judging by the gaps we have in the filing boxes, I think that Prentiss destroyed four of them. Maybe five. They got tossed out or burned or otherwise disposed of before I got back, probably even before the builders got called in. I tried asking around the janitorial staff, but none of them remember any real specifics about the boxes. Edwin said that he thinks one of them had a green label, or maybe the… stuff just turned the paper green, and something like C-357-2g on it? Or maybe G-8S1-2p? It wasn't very legible, and apparently the janitorial crew do their best  _ not  _ to read anything they come across down here, so I don't think we'll have much more information coming in.”

Jon grimaced. Losing the files was bad enough, but not even knowing what they had lost somehow made it worse. “I suppose there isn't much to be done. Anything else?”

“Yeah, we're also missing the tapes from statements 0051701 and 0160204; I'm not sure where they went. They might have just gotten lost in the shuffle, or accidentally crushed by a builder or something. The transcripts are still here, so I don't think it's that pressing a concern. You can probably just re-record them, if we really need the audio.”

Jon straightened up, realization crashing in on him. No, the tapes hadn't been crushed by a builder, because the tapes had been gone on the night of the attack. Jon had noticed them missing when he had been waiting for Martin. He hadn't put too much thought into it at the time, but now… if the tapes had somehow fallen out and been disposed of along with all the worm carcasses, then why would it only be the two tapes? They were all stored together; there should have been a fair amount missing if the shelf has been jostled enough to dump its contents. It wasn't likely to have been Prentiss, since she used an alternate way to ruin pieces of the collected knowledge. Which meant that someone, someone in the Archives, had to have taken the tapes. For what purpose?

“Just the two tapes that are missing? No others?” Jon asked.

“Everything else seems to be accounted for, as far as I know.”

But Martin hadn't been here on the night of the attack, at least not after it was over. “How many tapes do we have regarding the attack?”

“Do you mean, including mine? There’s three; the one that you and Tim had, the one that had all the follow-up statements after the ECDC showed up, and mine.”

“No unaccounted for or unlabeled tapes showed up, when you were tidying?”

“No, none that I found.”

Jon frowned. “Then we have three missing tapes. Sasha had a recorder her on her as well.”

“Oh. Right, she did, the one that Tim picked up when he came back from lunch. What happened to her tape?”

“I don't know. She accidentally ejected it in the chaos at some point. I had hoped that it would turn up after we'd cleaned the place some, but… Probably it was thrown away in a pile of worm corpses. Can't imagine the cleaners would have been too keen on sifting through the mess for objects.” Or maybe whoever had taken the other tapes had made that one disappear as well. But why?

“No, probably not. I wouldn't have been either. ...well, all things considered, it could have been a lot worse,” Martin said.

“I suppose,” Jon admitted, begrudgingly.

“Aside from that, I've also been looking into other areas where Prentiss might have been spotted in the last few months. I mean, this whole thing happened because there was a nest of those worms in her attic. The last thing we need is to find out that she left another nest behind somewhere and now we have to worry about more people like her. I haven't had too much luck, yet, but I think I have some promising leads on exterminators that might have been called to deal with those kinds of worms. Hopefully I'll have more information for you by the end of the week.”

Jon blinked. That was a very plausible reason for Martin to be spending time investigating an eliminated threat. “That's very thorough of you, Martin. And it's a good idea. Keep me up to date on any information you do find.”

“Of course, Jon,” Martin replied, and took his leave.

* * *

 

Jon worked well into the evening. He had been gone for a week and he had tasks to complete, deadlines that might cause him trouble and unwanted attention if he neglected them to go hunting for spider statements or statements involving tunnels. The sooner he got through them, the sooner he could focus on his primary investigations.

Martin also stayed in the Archives, long past the time when Jon would have expected him to go home.

Jon would have suspected that Martin was staying late in order to pester Jon about staying too late, but, uncharacteristically, Martin seemed to be trying to do his utmost to avoid Jon.

The last time he had heard footsteps approaching his office door, over two hours ago, he had been bracing to explain to Martin that no, he wasn't here for too long, he had simply come in late, so it only made sense to stay late. But instead of having to placate his mothering assistant, there had only been a pause, and then the sound of Martin going back to his desk.

Since then, there had been the occasional sound that confirmed that Martin was still in the Archives, but no signs of him coming to check on Jon. 

It wasn’t completely  _ impossible _ that Martin had somehow learned how to mind his own business in the last two days. But Jon would sooner expect worms to come pouring out of the wall of his office again than for that to happen.

Something else was going on. Something suspicious.

So Jon was listening very carefully when he heard significant movement outside his office. Shuffling papers, a chair being pushed back, and then footsteps heading out of the Archives and towards the stairs. Martin was going home? Well, it was about the time when Jon should be heading back as well, if he wanted to catch a reasonable train back to his apartment.

He listened to the footsteps tromping up the stairs. Maybe Martin had just fallen asleep at his desk and that was why he had stayed so late?

Jon had almost turned his attention back to the last bits of work he should finish up, when he heard a soft creak. He perked up, and listened to the very, very quiet footsteps coming back down the stairs, into the Archives, and then the soft click of a door being pulled shut.

The storage room? Martin, or possibly something else, was hiding in the storage room while trying to make Jon believe he was alone here. Why? Was it an ambush?

Jon swallowed and looked around his office for a weapon. The closest thing was his letter opener, or one of the heavier research books he had brought in from the library… No, there was still a fire extinguisher left in the corner. It was reasonably solid, probably his best bet.

Jon picked it up and opened the door of his office cautiously, peering out into the central hub of the Archives. All the desks were empty. Jon edged along the wall, trying to keep out of sight of the window of the storage room’s door. It was soundproof, so he shouldn’t have to worry about noise, but he held his breath anyway. After a few heart-pounding moments, he was pressed against the wall, beside the door. Nothing terrible had leapt out at him, yet.

Jon gripped the fire extinguisher tighter, then leaned over and peered through the window of the storage room door. The light was off, but Martin was using the torch function on his phone to provide some illumination. Jon watched Martin setting up the cot, spreading out the blankets on top of it. A different suspicion rose to the front of Jon's mind, and he put the fire extinguisher down. “Martin, are you living in the Archives?” he asked, opening the door.

Martin flinched and whirled around. “What? Um. Well, for tonight, I was planning on it. It's just that I, I stayed here kind of late, so I thought that I could use the cot. You’re, uh, not planning on staying here, are you? You’ll have a better rest at home,” he replied. He didn't meet Jon's eyes. 

Jon looked past him, and spotted the strap of the duffel bag that Martin had been living out of during the Prentiss threat, not entirely stashed under the cot. Jon sighed. “Why are you still living in the Archives, Martin?”

Martin swallowed. “Because… because I can't go back to my flat. I tried. I tried, and I… I couldn't even get all the way down the street before I had a panic attack. I can't-- I know, I know that Prentiss is dead, I know that there aren't any more worms, but the thought of going back there, it’s…”

“But there were worms here, too. It doesn't bother you?” Jon asked.

“I didn't die here,” Martin replied, quietly.

“Oh.” Jon was silent for a moment. “Can't you find somewhere else to live?”

Martin shook his head. “I mean, I stayed in a hotel for that first night after I came back here, but I… my mum… I don't have much in the way of savings. ...any, really. And breaking the lease on my flat would cost me more than keeping paying rent on it, at least for the next few months. I don't… I don't have any friends to stay with,” Martin admitted, staring intently at his shoes.

Jon thought about how someone in the Institute could have murdered Gertrude. How someone in the Institute probably  _ did _ murder Gertrude. And about Martin sleeping here alone. “You can't keep staying here, Martin.”

Martin looked even more miserable, hunching into himself. “Okay. I'll… figure something else out,” he mumbled.

“Get your things.”

“Can't… can't I at least stay here tonight? It's almost eleven,” Martin asked.

“No, you can't. The train we need to catch leaves in twenty minutes.”

That finally made Martin look at Jon. “What?”

“I just so happen to still own a sofa. And we… we are friends, aren't we?”

Martin just stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Look, if you'd rather stay on the street--”

“No! No, the sofa sounds great. Amazing. Thank you.” Martin smiled at him, and suddenly Jon was the one who was feeling the intense need to scrutinize the floor. He squashed the idiotic impulse.

“Good. Come on, then.”


	16. Chapter 16

Martin was very, very quiet on the trip back to the apartment, clutching his duffel bag and staring at the floor of the train.

Jon sat in awkward silence in an adjacent seat, watching the walls pass by through the windows.

Martin followed him silently out of the station and up the stairs to the corridor outside of Jon's apartment. Jon fished out his key and turned around to slot it into the keyhole, unlatching the lock with a click.

“I’m really sorry about this, Jon,” Martin mumbled from behind Jon, and all of the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stood on end.

Jon swallowed, staying very still. “Just to be clear, you’re apologizing about staying in my home, and not for something horrific you’re about to do to me, I hope?” he asked.

“What? Oh! Oh, god, no! I mean, yes! I mean, I’m sorry about you having to endure me in your home, again. Not, not about doing something bad to you. I wouldn’t hurt y-- Wait. That’s not why you’re doing this, is it?”

Jon let out a shaky breath, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open. He was only half listening to Martin’s babble now that he had the answer to his question. “I have no idea what ‘why’ you are referring to, Martin.”

“The, uh, fear thing. Thinking that I might snap, or something? Or that you need to keep me happy? You don’t need to, to placate me, Jon. I don’t-- I hope I never gave you the impression that it was otherwise.”

_ It’s Mr. Bluebottle, and he’s brought you a cake.  _ “No, I am aware. If you were inclined to harm me, then I highly doubt that minor gestures of goodwill on my part would change your mind about that,” Jon replied, as he walked into the apartment.

“It's not a minor gesture!”

Jon looked back at Martin. “If you say so. Are you coming in?”

Martin bit his lip and followed Jon inside. “I do mean it, though. I'm sorry. I'll do my best to find somewhere else soon, I swear. Oh! We're going to rent a storage locker for the tapes. I could go there, once we arrange that.”

Jon heaved a sigh. “You aren't going to live in a storage locker, Martin.”

Martin made a frustrated noise. “But I don't have any other options.”

“So then stay here, like I just invited you to.”

“But I… I don't… you… Last week was really, really awful for you, wasn't it?”

“It was,” Jon confirmed.

“I don't want to put you through more of that, Jon.”

Jon sighed. “Martin,  _ you _ were not the only thing that happened to me last week. There was also being partially devoured by worms and finding out my predecessor was murdered by an unknown party within a few hundred yards of my office, to name a few.”

“But I didn’t help. And you said… you said you were afraid of me.”

“If I was the type of person who avoided the things that I was afraid of, I wouldn’t have the job I currently have, Martin,” Jon replied. “And while, yes, there were definitely things you did that made it worse, none of them seem to have been intentional. I can’t be sure that none of them will happen again, but at this point I have larger things to worry about. I need to find out who murdered Gertrude, and you need a place to stay, so just take the bloody sofa.”

“...okay,” Martin mumbled.

“Good. It will be easier to collaborate like this, anyway. I’ll get a key made for you tomorrow.”

“A key?! You- you don’t need to do that!”

“If we constantly arrive at and leave the Institute at the same time, then that is going to raise eyebrows. You need a way to come and go independently of me while you’re here.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You should know where everything is by this point,” Jon replied, gesturing to the linen closet. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to get ready for bed.”

“Okay. I-- Wait, did you buy a sledgehammer?” Martin asked, apparently finally noticing the pile of tools in the corner.

“Among other things.”

“Why?”

“To break into the tunnels with. You do remember the plan, correct?”

“Um, yes. I do. That, that makes sense. Okay, I’ll just- uh, get settled in, then.”

“Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight.”

* * *

 

“So, um, Tim is on leave for another two weeks at least,” Martin said, over breakfast.

“Is he? Good for him,” Jon replied, not looking up from his oatmeal.

“I heard that he's been recovering from something similar to, er, you. And I feel like you should probably be resting for a similar amount of time?”

“Not this again,” Jon muttered.

“I'm sorry, but I'm worried about you. I know you're not fully healed yet and I don't want you to get an infection or something because you aren't taking care of yourself.”

“I didn't invite you to stay here in order to be subjected to more lectures, Martin.”

“Then kick me out, if it bothers you that much.”

Jon looked up at Martin, who stared back stubbornly. Jon sighed. “ Fine. I will…  _ consider _ only going in for half-days this week. And maybe the next, depending on how I feel.”

“You mean actual ‘only going in for about half of an eight-hour shift’ half-days, and not 12-hour half-days, right?”

“Yes, Martin.”

“Okay. That's better than nothing.”

Jon grumbled into his breakfast.

As they were leaving the apartment, he told Martin “I'll have a new key made after I leave the Archives this afternoon. I'll give it to you when you get back here tonight; I don't want anyone seeing you receive it and asking questions.”

“Sounds good.”

* * *

 

Jon spent several minutes dithering at a store across the street from the Institute before heading down to the Archives. He didn't want to be seen coming in at the exact same time as Martin.

Sasha was back at her desk when he walked into the Archives; she looked up and smiled at him. “Hello, Jon. It’s good to see you again. How are you feeling?”

“Well enough, Sasha, though I don’t think I’ll be up for working the entire day,” Jon replied, pointedly not looking at Martin where he sat at his desk. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m all right. I wasn’t injured in the attack, and I spent a few evenings speaking with a therapist, so I feel much better now.”

“Good. That’s good. Glad to have you back, Sasha.”

“Glad to be back, Jon.”

Jon nodded and went into his office. There were cobwebs in the same corners as before.

* * *

 

While Jon returned to the apartment by two, Martin didn't come back that night until almost eleven.

This pattern repeated for the next several days, during which Jon nursed a growing sense of resentment. “Oh, Jon, I'm worried about you, you shouldn't work more than four hours a day, but meanwhile I'm going to spend sixteen hours a day in the Archives like a  _ giant hypocrite," _ Jon muttered to himself while he sat in his recliner and scoured the internet for more information on Tim, Sasha, and Elias. The tunnels exploration had hit a snag, though Martin kept promising that he would find out where Prentiss had gotten in any day now. Jon couldn't afford to hold off on further investigations until that time, though. These three were the ones most closely involved with the Archives, and therefore the primary suspects. He needed all the information he could get. Social media was a blight, but at least it was somewhat useful in this regard. 

Much of Sasha’s profile was open to the public, pictures of vacations and happy occasions. Not terribly active, but everything looked innocuous enough. Jon moved on.

Tim's profile was private. There were a handful of Instagram photos available- kayaking and snowboarding and other assorted sports, mainly. Jon wondered if those sorts of interests extended to visiting a shooting range. Something to be aware of.

Elias had almost no internet presence at all, save for a practically barren LinkedIn page. Something suspicious, or just the evidence of the generation gap? He would have to investigate further. At least Martin's absence meant Jon wouldn't have to explain what he was doing; Martin seemed to believe that an outside party was responsible for Gertrude’s death, and he might not understand the need to look into Institute staff.

* * *

 

And then Saturday rolled around, and Martin still disappeared. Early in the morning this time, not even staying around for a shared breakfast.

It was only then that Jon realized that he should not have assumed that Martin was spending all the time away from the apartment in the Archives. But where else could he be going? Martin had said that he didn't have any friends to live with, so going to visit someone, especially potentially for hours and hours every day, seemed extremely unlikely. Jon didn't like the implications of this at all.

He needed to find out where Martin was going, what he was doing.

But Martin was long gone by now, and Jon didn't have the faintest idea of where to start looking. Why had he let his guard down so much? He was getting sloppy. He couldn't afford that.

He could call Martin. He could call and… then what? Jon fought back the burning urge to demand where Martin had disappeared to. If it truly was something nefarious that was happening, Martin would only lie to him, and then he would know that Jon was suspicious. Jon couldn't afford that. Instead, he went to bed early and resolved to wake up as soon as possible in the morning, so he could follow Martin when he left.

* * *

 

He had somehow managed to lose Martin on Sunday. He’d been too cautious about trailing far enough behind. Stupid.

He would need to be more attentive tomorrow.

Monday was significantly more productive, not just because Jon finally put in a full day of work, but because he stayed until he heard Martin leaving, around five. So his suspicions were confirmed, then. Martin wasn’t working until late into the night in the Archives. Something else was going on.

Jon followed behind, taking a different car on the train that Martin boarded. It was the same train he took to go back to the apartment. And the same stop, when Martin got off. Was Martin going back to the apartment? Had he already completed whatever goals had occupied so much of his time?

No, Martin turned down a road in the opposite direction of the apartment building, and made his way to… a park. Jon followed from a distance, ducking partially behind a tree when Martin stopped. Jon watched Martin set his bag down and settle there.

Martin was sitting on a bench in the park. Just sitting there. Sometimes he took out a notebook to scribble in it, or stared out over the small patch of green that had been preserved in London. Was he waiting for someone? 

Jon waited and watched out of the corner of his eye, pulling out his phone and fiddling with it intermittently to provide some kind of excuse to the people passing by for why Jon was standing motionless next to an oak tree.

Nothing at all interesting happened, and by the time the sun was starting to go down, Jon doubted that anything would, today. He still needed to get home before Martin, to keep from letting on what he knew. He would have to watch again, tomorrow.

It rained on Tuesday. Martin brought an umbrella and still sat on the bench. Jon did not think you bring an umbrella, and returned to his apartment wet and miserable and in need of a shower in less than two hours.

Finally, on Wednesday with no obvious sign of  _ anything _ happening, Jon gave up and walked up to the bench. “Martin, what are you doing here?" he demanded.

Martin jerked like he’d been electrocuted, snapping the notebook shut and looking up at Jon. “Wh- what? Jon? Why are you here? How did you… Did you follow me?” he asked.

“That’s beside the point. What are you doing here?” Jon repeated.

“I-- I’m writing poetry. And enjoying some fresh air, too, I guess.”

Jon raised a eyebrow. “That’s why you’re here? Isn't this where you've been every day? Haven’t you been outside for hours every day for a while now?”

Martin shrugged. “I mean, I haven’t had much opportunity to be outside in the last few months, Jon. Also, I’m pretty sure that I really shouldn’t stay in your apartment for an extended period of time.”

“Is this about you feeling... guilty, or something, still?”

“No. Well, partially. But mostly it’s about that,” Martin replied, pointing upwards.

Jon raised his gaze, tracing up along the trunk of a tree which was providing shade for the bench. And then into the branches, where an extensive network of tangled white silk stretched over the inner branches of the tree. Dozens of fat, bulbous spiders tended to the webs, weaving and skittering and quivering. A strangled noise escaped from Jon’s mouth, and he scrambled backwards to get out from underneath the tree’s canopy. 

“It’s actually been pretty neat, watching them, because none of those species are actually social spiders. Most of them would be cannibalizing each other at this point, if they ever got this close to each other at all. But instead, they’re all working together. It’s nice, you know? Seeing some co-operation,” Martin said, looking up at the nightmare perched over his head.

Jon continued backing further away from the tree, but not before he noticed a rather sizable lump caught in the webs. One with a bushy tail peeking through the swathes of cobweb. “Is… is that a squirrel?”

Martin sighed. “Yeah, that happened today, actually. I’m pretty sure I should find another bench to sit at, or they might start trapping… larger things. It's too bad; I really liked this spot.”

“I… Did this happen when you were staying at the Archives?”

Martin finally looked back to Jon. “No, not as far as I'm aware. Maybe it was happening in the tunnels? Might have been slowing down the worms some.  Or maybe it's just accelerated when I'm outside, where there's a lot more spiders to work with?”

“Or maybe it’s getting worse,” Jon said.

Martin looked down and away. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Martin, I don’t think… I don’t think you should be trying to deal with this alone. In the statements, it seems like isolation only makes things worse, makes you vulnerable.”

Martin let out a little huff of breath. “Yeah, I think I already found that one out. But there isn’t really a therapist I can go to, to talk about this, Jon.”

“You could talk to me,” Jon said.

“You?”

Jon cleared his throat. “I know I’m not the most… personable of people. I’m probably the opposite of a therapist. But, unfortunately, I’m the only option you have right now. Until you can find someone you trust about the whole… that,” Jon said, gesturing at the tree. “I can't promise I'll be able to help, but at least two heads should be better than one. ...I don’t want to see you become something like Prentiss, Martin.”

“I… Okay. I’ll try to keep you informed of any recent developments, or, or other things,” Martin replied. "So, can you, um, maybe not stalk me?"


	17. Chapter 17

Jon took a breath and opened his mouth to argue that it wasn’t _stalking_ , but his brain provided him with absolutely no evidence to contradict that statement. “...fine. I will try to be more... transparent about my concerns, in the future. I’ll see you back at the apartment?”

“Yeah, okay,” Martin replied.

“Do you want me to order you any supper?”

“No, I think I can fend for myself. Thanks, though.”

Jon thought about the squirrel trapped in the webs, and shivered. “By fending for yourself, you do mean… conventional food, right?”

“What? I mean, I think so? I don’t know what your standard for unconventional food is. I was just planning on going to the sandwich shop across the street. They do really nice paninis.”

“Right. I’ll leave you to it, then.” Jon lingered for a moment longer, glancing back up at the spider-infested tree. It was hard to see the webs when not looking up from the base of the tree; the leaves obscured most of it from this angle. He should probably keep an eye on it, to make sure it didn’t get even worse. Setting the whole thing alight seemed unfortunately infeasible without the risk of the fire getting out of hand and getting himself arrested, but perhaps he could get the city to send out exterminators if need be. It was something, at least. Jon left the park.

He spent the rest of the walk home mulling over the offer he had made, and the assent that Martin had given. What were the chances of Martin actually keeping him informed on any new developments?

Not good. Martin had been working industriously to conceal the extent to which his experiences were affecting him, from avoiding Jon’s apartment to trying to hide his housing issue to trying to deny it when he had been caught evicting spiders from the place that first week. Who could say what additional aspects there had been that Jon hadn't successfully noticed?

Even if he _could_ trust Martin to be forthright about his condition moving forward, could he be sure Martin would notice the changes? If the shifts were subtle, or if he was already losing ground to the kind of mindset that had consumed Prentiss…

No, Jon would need to be more proactive about this.

He turned off of the road to his apartment and headed back to the train station.

* * *

 

When Martin returned later that evening, Jon was in the sitting room waiting for him. “Hello, Martin. Sit down, we need to talk,” he said, clicking on the tape recorder.

A flash of panic flickered across Martin's face, and for a moment Jon thought that Martin might dash back out into the night. Then he swallowed and walked forward to perch on the edge of the sofa cushions. “Okay. What about?” he asked, clasping his hands together nervously.

“How are you feeling?”

“Um, fine?” Martin replied.

“No. I want to know how you're actually feeling. What you're thinking about all this.”

A spark of that same panic reignited in Martin’s eyes. “What? Why?”

“You said that you would talk to me about this,” Jon pointed out.

“No, I said that I would tell you if there were any changes or other developments.”

“If I don't have an established baseline with which to compare any changes, how can I understand what sort of magnitude they have?”

“Well, you could try actually listening to me,” Martin said.

Jon frowned. “I _am_ trying to listen to you. What does it look like I'm doing?”

“I didn't mean right now! I meant- I meant when I'm ready to talk about it.”

Jon made a unimpressed noise. “Given how cagey you have been about this subject, I frankly don't trust that you will speak to me about it at all without prompting. So, I'm prompting.”

Martin looked away. “Do we really need to do this now?”

Jon didn't want to give Martin time to cook up a believable lie to feed to him. “Yes. I don't understand why you’re so hesitant to talk; you seem to be more than happy to nose into other people's business. I don't think that I've gone two weeks in the last year without you asking me how I'm feeling at least once.”

“So, what? Is this revenge for that, then?” Martin asked.

“So you _do_ know how annoying it-- no, that's not important. And no, this isn't about getting even. It's because I'm concerned about you. I'm just pointing out that it's rather hypocritical of you to be reticent about this.”

“It's not like you ever gave me real answers when I asked you this question,” Martin muttered.

“Well, why don't you set a good example for me, then?” Jon shot back, and watched Martin’s posture hunch even more defensively. Jon sighed. “Why are you acting like this, Martin?”

Martin gestured in frustration. “Because I'm not used to this! This isn't how it works! I just, I just care about people, and they never care about me. And that's fine! I'm used to it. It means I never have to talk about- about anything. I can pretend it doesn't matter, because no one cares. I don't have to care about it, either, I can just look after other people and never have to…” Martin trailed off, shaking his head and letting out a humorless little chuckle. “God, why am I telling you this? It's like I _want_ to come across as the most pathetic idiot in London.”

Jon fought back a stab of pity. No one wanted that. “It's not… I'm not asking you this for my own amusement, Martin. I… If I know your situation better, I may be able to help. I would prefer to leave you your privacy, but…”

Martin sighed. “ Yeah, the stakes are too high. I… Well, let's get this over with, then. How do I feel? Scared, I guess. I'm always scared, so that's nothing new. But I'm also, I don't know, not scared? I'm not scared about the spiders or the webs or any of it. I mean, I've never been scared of normal spiders, so maybe it's not a surprise. But I feel like I probably should be? Scared of this, that is. I mean, what’s happened to me, what I can do now, it's obviously not normal. But it just, it feels right. Comfortable, I guess. Like I'm not alone anymore. Like I'm not helpless anymore. It's… I know it freaks you out, and it probably would freak other people out, too. Maybe not as much as you, though, I feel like you kind of hate spiders a lot. But anyway, I'm trying not to do the things that I know would freak people out. But I don't… I know it academically, not viscerally, I guess. It doesn't come naturally anymore. And I feel like I might start to forget, what is and isn't okay. And that's the thought that scares me.”

It scared Jon, too. “I see. What about the… the mind control? Is that comfortable as well?”

“No, not really. I don’t know for sure. I haven't really done it much, I think. I mean, I guess that part is scary? It's… mostly I'm just worried I might, might turn it on by accident again, or something. I don't want to have it happen when I don't mean to do it. Especially if I don't know I'm doing it.”

“That… makes sense,” Jon said. He didn’t like the unsaid implication that Martin wasn’t necessarily bothered by the idea of doing it intentionally. “How long has this feeling, or lack thereof, been present? Since you, er…”

“Since I died? No, I don’t think so. Mostly I didn’t even think that there was much else involved in this, aside from, from not being dead. And I didn’t want to look into that too much, since, you know, gift horse and all that. I didn’t- don’t- want to be dead, even if it means never being able to go home again or having awful nightmares or being terrified that I’m going to be eaten alive _again_ or watch other people die horrifically and not be able to stop it or--”

“Martin,” Jon said, when it seemed like Martin wasn’t losing any steam.

“Sorry. Sorry, kind of why I didn’t… didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t…” Martin clasped his hands together again and swallowed. “Anyway. That part isn’t important, is it? The, um, monster thing, that’s what we’re talking about. I guess I only started being worried about that after I trapped you here? I don’t think I did anything really, um, spooky before then. I could have missed something, I guess. I was pretty focused about Prentiss, then. Is… is there anything else you need?”

“No, I think that should cover it for now,” Jon replied, and watched Martin crumple, sagging forwards and burying his face in his hands. Jon felt an unpleasant twinge of something behind his ribs. That didn’t look like the response of someone who had been helped in any way by what had occurred. By what Jon had pressed him into.

But Jon knew what was going on, now. More than he had before, at least. That was better than not knowing, surely?

For Jon, maybe. But it didn’t seem to be the case for Martin.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, the words falling off his tongue like bricks. What on earth was he supposed to say? He was completely out of his depth. “This was… I… Would you take a hug the wrong way?” he asked tentatively.

“There’s a wrong way to take a hug?” Martin asked, sounding baffled and raising his head. Then his eyes widened and he jerked backwards, like a cat that had just put its paw in something wet. “Wait, you mean from _you_?! _”_

Jon blinked. “Well, you could have just said ‘no thanks’,” he muttered, trying not to sound offended.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I don’t think I’ve ever pictured you actually hugging, well, anyone? It’s like… like thinking about a dog driving a car, or something. Um, it's really hard to come up with metaphors for things that seem impossible to happen, what with our job being the way it is--”

Jon finally decided to cut off the babbling. “Yes, thank you, Martin. You've made your point clear. Too weird, got it. Give me a moment, I need to research alternative methods of providing reassurance,” Jon said, pulling out his phone and opening up a browser.

Martin let out a shaky little laugh. “Oh, it actually _is_ you, then. I'd kind of thought you'd been replaced by a different Jon, or something. I... A hug would actually be nice? But only if you're okay with it.”

Jon glanced up from his phone. “Why would I offer something if I was uncomfortable with providing it?”

“Well, there could be plenty of reasons. You’re clearly not used to this kind of thing, and you might have just said the first thing that came to mind without thinking about it, or because you couldn’t think of anything else to say but actually maybe you really, really don’t want to and--”

Jon sighed and got to his feet. “Stand up, Martin.”

Martin stared at him for a moment before standing up from the sofa. Jon took a step forward and managed to thread his hands between Martin's sides and his arms. He wrapped his arms around Martin's middle and leaned forward, resting the side of his face against Martin's collarbone.

Martin was awkwardly still for a moment, during which time Jon noted that he did still have a heartbeat, though the sound of it was just slightly off, like it had an echo. Was his chest hollow? Then Martin sagged into him, and Jon was suddenly preoccupied with trying to maintain his balance. Martin's arms looped loosely around his back, and he curled forward to drop his head against Jon's shoulder.

Jon managed to keep his footing somehow, and stood there while Martin let out a long, shuddering breath. There was a moment's pause, while the warmth from Martin's body started seeping into Jon's bones.

Jon cleared his throat and patted Martin's back awkwardly. “I am sorry. I… I had a responsibility to you, as the head archivist. And I failed you. I shouldn’t have let something like this happen to you in the first place. I should have gone to check on you when you didn’t come into work. Maybe, if I had…”

Jon could feel Martin shake his head. “You thought that I was just sick. And… and if you had come, Prentiss just would have got you, too,” he mumbled into Jon’s shoulder. “And I don’t think the spider trick would have worked for you.”

“I would have taken it significantly less well than you have, at least,” Jon replied dryly. He sighed. “I can’t fix what happened then. What you had to go through. But… you aren’t alone now, for what that’s worth,” Jon said.

“I… yeah. Thanks, Jon.” Martin replied.


	18. Chapter 18

Jon stayed in the circle of Martin's arms for several long moments, listening while Martin's heartbeat slowed from an anxious, rapid staccato to a more relaxed rhythm. The whole experience was surprisingly not unpleasant, though as the silence stretched into minutes, Jon started feeling more uncomfortable. How long was this sort of thing supposed to go on for? Would Martin let him know when he'd had enough? Martin wasn't holding onto Jon tightly-- he was more draped over top of him than anything else-- but he didn't seem inclined to let go any time soon. Was Jon just supposed to stand here and wait? Or say some kind of comforting nonsense?

A stab in the dark, then. “Is… there anything else you'd like to tell me?” Jon tried.

“Yeah, I found out where Prentiss got into the tunnels. At least, I'm pretty sure I did,” Martin replied.

“You  _ what _ ?!” Jon exclaimed, snapping his hands up to Martin's shoulders and jerking him away, back to arm's length. “When was this? Why didn't you inform me immediately?”

Martin’s eyes were wide and shocked, but he answered the question. “Um, on Friday? And, well, I didn't want you going into the tunnels so soon, because you're still hurt, and I thought I would just wait to tell you until you were feeling a little better.”

Jon was wrestling with the urge to violently shake Martin for keeping this information from him when another thought occurred to him. Martin had been missing for the whole weekend, and he'd never confirmed that the park was where he had spent his time then. Jon had lost him on Sunday. Martin could have gone anywhere after that, could have realized that Jon had been tailing him and purposefully went somewhere innocuous on Monday.

Had he been going into the tunnels? To set a trap, perhaps, or to go and remove the tapes that might prove inconvenient if Jon were to access them? How could Jon be sure?

How could Jon have been so stupid as to trust Martin left to his own devices? Martin wasn't an ally; Martin wasn't even human. Of course he'd had his own motives for wanting to explore the tunnels. And Jon had been complacent and just let him do it.

He needed a new plan, one that didn't rely on Martin. If he just went in through the trapdoor at the Institute, he might be able to head Martin off. He'd have to ensure that Martin didn't find out about it, because he had no doubt that Martin would resort to his commands, if the more subtle form of manipulation he was currently employing wouldn't do the trick.

“I see,” Jon finally said, releasing Martin's shoulders and stepping back from him.

“Jon, I'm sorry, I just--” Martin started.

Jon cut him off. “It's fine. I should have expected as much. You can show me where it is later. Perhaps on the weekend.” That would give Jon at least Thursday, and probably Friday, to try his luck from the Institute. He could probably claim he had to visit the library as an excuse to leave the Archives...

“You… don't want me to tell you right now?” Martin asked.

Jon shrugged. “It's late, and I'm tired. And demanding that you give me specific information regarding the tunnels hasn't exactly turned out well for me before.”

Martin looked concerned. “Is something the matter? You're not acting like yourself.”

Irritation flared. “ What do you want from me, Martin? You chastise me for pursuing leads, and interrogate me when I leave them be?” Jon snapped. “Or are you just discomforted when I act this way not under your control?”

“Under my what? Jon, I'm not controlling you!”

“What do you call concealing information in order to have me behave the way you want, then?” Jon demanded.

“That… that's not the same thing!” Martin exclaimed.

“Isn't it? Maybe it's a more mundane form of manipulation than what you have at your disposal, but it has the same result, doesn't it?”

“Of making sure you don't hurt yourself even more?!”

“Of keeping me where you want me, without giving me a say in the matter,” Jon replied coldly.

Martin fell silent. “...I didn't mean it like that,” he finally said, softly.

“No, I expect you didn't. But it doesn't change the situation.”

“I'm sorry. I… we're in this together. I should have kept you informed. I should have trusted you.”

Jon looked away. “ Trust gets people… well, it doesn't matter. We know where we stand, now.”

“We--? Jon, you aren't going to do something, um, drastic, are you?”

“Of course not,” Jon replied.

“Jon.”

“Nevermind it. You haven't needed my help to explore the tunnels anyway,” Jon muttered.

“What? I haven't gone in the tunnels, not since the attack. The last thing I want is to get lost down there and leave you behind again. I haven't even gone to the house yet.”

“The house?”

“Where Prentiss got into the tunnels? It's a little rowhouse on Stadium Street. Apparently it got used as a grow-op before the police found out about six months back, and since the bust it's been empty, because of mold and things. One of the neighbours contracted an exterminator a few months back because her garden was infested with little grey worms, so it seems to fit the bill. I haven't actually confirmed it, though. I thought that if I went there then I'd definitely have to tell you, and… well, we already went over that part. If I didn't confirm it, then I felt like I could put it off, because I still needed to do my due diligence, you know?” Martin explained.

It sounded believable. Jon turned his gaze back on Martin. “Where were you this weekend, then?”

“At the park? I mean, mostly. I did start out in a coffee shop, but they tend to want you to buy things and money is a bit tight so I figured that going somewhere free would be a better option in the long run. I might've had to stay indoors if it was winter, but fortunately by the time winter rolls my lease will have expired and I'll be able to get a new flat, so, yeah. I thought the park would be good.”

Jon watched Martin until the babble finally petered out. It didn't seem like he was lying. Jon sighed. “Right. Well, then, we should probably swing by that area in passing tomorrow, after work. If Prentiss got inside, it shouldn't be too difficult for us as well, but we'll want to know what kind of neighbours and CCTV we should be aware of when we try to break in,” he said.

Martin blinked. “Oh. That sounds… reasonable?”

Jon scowled. “What, were you expecting me to learn the location and immediately race off to crawl in through a window?”

“...no?” Martin tried.


	19. Chapter 19

Jon leveled Martin with an unimpressed stare.

“I mean, technically I didn’t expect you to do  _ specifically  _ that,” Martin added.

Jon let out a disgruntled huff of a breath. “I probably don't want to know what you  _ were _ expecting of me, do I?”

“Probably not?”

“Fine. Well, now that we've established that I'm not an  _ utter _ imbecile, I suppose I can turn in for the night. I… ah, right. Are you... all right for now, Martin?” Jon asked, finally remembering what he had been doing before his train of thought had been derailed.

Martin blinked. “What? You just shouted at me.”

“Yes, I remember that bit. I meant aside from that.”

“Um, I suppose? I'm feeling confused, mostly. And kind of guilty? And worried?” Martin replied.

“But not anguished or murderous?”

“No.”

Jon nodded. “Right. That seems like it should be manageable. Keep me up to date on any negative changes.”

“...I don't really feel like emotional support works the same way as technical support?” Martin said.

“Well, if you have any suggestions about how to better approach this, then feel free to tell me them,” Jon replied.

“I don't… know? I mean, I guess it just kind of helps to know that… that people care?”

Jon tilted his head to one side. “Why would I be doing this if I didn't care?”

“Um, I kind of thought you were trying to prevent some kind of, er, spider-pocalypse or something?”

“Well, there's that, too. But I do care. I don't want to see you suffer, and I don't want to see you become a monster like Prentiss was. I don't want to lose you. And, if there is anything in my power that I can do to prevent that, I will do it. Do you understand?” Jon asked, meeting Martin’s gaze.

Martin seemed to be frozen for a moment, then he blinked rapidly and looked away. “I… um, okay. Yeah, I understand,” he mumbled.

“Good. I'll see you in the morning, Martin,” Jon said, turning away to go into his bedroom. He shut the door just as Martin sagged back onto the sofa.

* * *

 

Jon’s established nighttime routine suffered a bit of an upset when he pushed up his sleeve to count his stitches and found that there weren’t any left to count. The sutures were just gone, and left in their place was a line of scar tissue along Jon’s arm that radiated out from the edges in tiny webbed patterns.

Jon stared down at the mark for a moment. Then, hesitantly, he tried to touch the scarred skin. His fingers brushed lightly over the tough, puckered flesh; apparently his hand no longer slid away from the spot like it had been jerked by unseen strings. It seemed that Jon’s arm was his once more.

Branded, but his.

Jon wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

At least just another weird scar added to his collection of weird scars would be easier to make excuses for than inexplicable stitches.

But what had caused the change? It had looked the same for over two weeks, right down to the number of stitches. And now this? A sudden shift with something like this seemed unlikely to mean anything good. What was so different about tonight?

Jon had come in contact with Martin this evening. The last time he’d let Martin touch him, the stitches had gone in. Maybe he’d taken them back?

Jon suddenly had the vivid mental image of the thread wriggling its way out from under his skin to slip back into the patches that made up Martin, and shuddered.

Surely Jon would have felt that? Perhaps it had just dissolved, or been banished back to wherever it had come from in the first place. He supposed the manner in which the web went away didn’t really matter so long as it really was gone.

And so long as the scar tissue didn’t start spreading.

Jon rubbed his thumb idly over the mark one more time before sighing and continuing to get ready for bed.

* * *

The day at the office was dragging. Jon refused to entertain the thought that time was somehow literally being slowed down in the building. His life may be spiralling rapidly out of control, but he liked to think he was still reasonable enough to realize when it was just anticipation that was making every glance at the clock feel like slow torture.

It didn’t help that Jon was not having a lot of luck finding much in the way of spider statements. Oh, there were plenty of nonsense ramblings about people being certain that there was a brazilian wandering spider that had mysteriously manifested itself within their basement and was always lurking somewhere just out of sight. How did they know it was specifically a brazilian wandering spider, then? Well, that was one of the really scary ones and they just watched the most horrifying documentary about the rainforest the other week...

No surprise that those recorded digitally without a single hiccup.

Arachnophobia was frustratingly common fear, and Jon was starting to resent this. Which was perhaps hypocritical of him, but he was past the point of caring about that at this point.

It seemed like the ones that lead out with the spider aspect from the get-go were mostly useless garbage. Though, admittedly, that could just be a sampling error, given that most of the records they had were also useless garbage.

Nevertheless, it seemed like Jon would have to spend more time reading through the given statements rather than skimming the first few lines for anything relevant. Which was aggravatingly inefficient, given the utter lack of any kind of a filing system in the Archives. 

At least the statement from Jennifer Ling had proved interesting, though apparently unrelated to Jon’s current predicament.

Finally, the clock limped past 5 o’clock, and Jon left the Archives. He met Martin at a corner several blocks away from the Institute, and they made their way towards Stadium Street.

As they turned into the street, Jon felt hyperaware of every person in the vicinity. It was probably stupid of him to think that the passers-by were interested in anything beyond perhaps taking a moment to gawk at his scars. But the feeling of being under scrutiny now, when he was so close to a potential break in his stymied frustration, set Jon's teeth on edge. “Martin,” Jon hissed in a whisper. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“I don't care. Anything,” Jon muttered, not liking the way that the teenager across the street was looking at them. Were they standing out too much?

“Um, um, okay. Uh, so I’m not quite as big an architecture buff as Tim is, but I have been looking into the, er, foundations that have made up London over the last couple centuries and some of it has been really interesting. I mean, there’s your more standard Georgian Era stuff, which has got its charms, especially the stuff that got worked on by Smirke, but there’s also the older designs, especially the stuff that survived the Great Fire…” Martin babbled.

“Mhmn. Fascinating,” Jon replied, barely paying attention as he tried to surreptitiously take in all the information he could about the street.

“I’ve actually got some pictures of the things on my phone, hold on a second,” Martin said, as he stopped on the sidewalk just outside the rowhouse to pull out his phone.

Jon stood beside him and took the opportunity to look over the building. The house seemed normal. Maybe a little shabbier than the neighbouring places, but not in any way that would have been noticeable if the place hadn’t been specifically brought to his attention. This was what Prentiss had used to mount her attack? It seemed an unsettling reminder of how easily dreadful things could hide under a paper-thin veneer.

“Um, I know it’s on here somewhere, just one moment…” Martin mumbled.

“You can show me later. We should be going if we don’t want to be late,” Jon said.

“Oh! All right, if you’re sure,” Martin replied, pocketing the phone and following Jon as he walked down the street.

After they had gotten several blocks away, some of the tension in Jon’s spine finally seemed to ease, and his skin stopped itching. He let out a sigh.

“Did you get what you needed?” Martin asked.

“Yes, I think so. It doesn’t seem like there should be too many technological complications. I do need to go back to the hardware store, though.”

“For what?”

Jon glanced around to ensure no one was in earshot. “Well, that place is somewhere that’s filled with potentially hazardous mold, and it was somewhere that  _ Prentiss  _ of all people decided to use. We’ll want to pick up dust masks to try to limit our exposure to anything that might remain in there. Dust masks as well as gloves are something we should keep on at least for the duration of the time spent inside the house itself, and likely for a fair ways into the tunnels. We won’t want to touch anything that we don’t have to. And don’t wear any clothes you’re not willing to burn.”

Martin went a bit paler and nodded. “Right.”

“We can discuss everything else back at home,” Jon said. “Are you going to be coming back now?”

“I… yeah.”

“Good. We’ll grab some supper and the dust masks first, and then we can talk.”

* * *

“From what I saw, there weren’t any cameras near the rear of the building. It should be relatively easy to get over the wall and into the garden. From there, we can see if Prentiss left the back door unlocked, or break in if necessary. We can do it tomorrow night,” Jon said, sitting at the kitchen table and using a highlighter to mark out places on the printed map where he did spot CCTV cameras. Martin was at the counter, putting away the supper dishes.

“Are you sure you’re up for that?” Martin asked.

“Yes, Martin. I will be fine.”

“It’s just, like you said, the place probably isn’t going to be the most sanitary, and if you rip any of your scabs, then…”

“I’ll make sure everything is well covered up with bandages. And we can bring along some disinfectant, just in case. Honestly, I think if anything was going to have infected these wounds, it would have already happened, given how they were inflicted.”

“...fair point. Right, so then we head for the basement?”

“Yes. I doubt that Prentiss would have covered her tracks very well, so any entrance should be fairly apparent, if she really did use the house. But this brings us to the next problem. Going there sometime past midnight will probably give us the best odds of getting in undetected. Then we’ll have approximately four to five hours for exploration before we can expect people to start being active around the outside of the house. We’ll either want to leave before then, or stay in the tunnels until Saturday night. And I honestly don’t think that four hours will be enough for us to accomplish much.”

“...you don’t seriously want us to be down there for a whole day, do you?”

“I think it’s our best option. We’ll likely need a fair amount of time to determine any kind of reasonable path to the Institute, and the more often we come and go from the location, the more likely we are to attract attention.”

“What about attracting the attention of anything in the tunnels?” Martin asked.

Jon shrugged. “You were already down there for over a day without anything like that happening. Unless you left something out of your statement? Again?”

“Um, no. Aside from the spiders, and you, nothing found me. But I wasn’t moving around much or really drawing attention to myself.”

“Well, obviously if we come across something horrific, the first priority will be getting out, regardless of the time of day. But I believe that we should plan and prepare for a long visit. It’s our best option for accomplishing the task. The sooner we find Gertrude and get the tapes, the sooner we can find out what we’re up against.”

Martin sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But if I think that we really need to leave, will you listen to me?”

“Assuming that I’m given any choice in the matter? Yes. I will listen to your concerns.”

“I wouldn’t-- Okay. Fine. That’ll have to do. We’ll want to make sure we bring everything we might need tomorrow night, then...”


	20. Chapter 20

The packing discussion was not going well.

“What do you mean you haven’t got a sleeping bag?”

“Do I seem like the outdoors type, Martin?”

“But if we’re going to be going down there for a whole day, then we’re going to want to have those. Believe me, I know from experience, the tunnel floors are incredibly uncomfortable.”

“You want us to  _ sleep _ in the supernatural underground tunnels?” Jon demanded.

“You want us to spend over twenty-four hours stumbling around trying to map incredibly confusing tunnels without any rest?” Martin shot back.

“That was the plan, yes.”

“No. That’s a stupid plan. There’s two of us, one can keep watch while the other one grabs at, at least a nap or something. On top of that, where exactly are you planning on putting all of this stuff?” Martin asked, gesturing to the pile of papers, tools, flashlights, batteries, and chalk. “Your briefcase isn’t exactly going to cut it. And, and we could stand to get some better food than the packets of biscuits you’ve got in the cupboard.”

Jon made a disgruntled sound. “Fine. We’ll go to an outdoors supply shop tomorrow, after work. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yeah, okay. And I’m getting you a sleeping bag.”

“Do what you want,” Jon grumbled.

* * *

Jon didn’t want to admit that Martin had been right. He had ducked into the outdoors supply shop briefly on his last supply run, to grab a compass, but he hadn’t bothered to look around. Which had been a mistake, because he had just now found the headlamps and was busily gathering three into his arms as well as multiple replacement batteries. Having both hands free would make their work exponentially easier, and Jon couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this before.

Martin was two aisles over, picking out two large hiking rucksacks, several pounds of dried fruit, dried meat, nuts, and energy gel, as well as the promised sleeping bag and pad.

Jon was contemplating on whether he wanted to pick up an extra compass, just in case, when his eyes fell on the climbing ropes coiled neatly on one shelf. The architecture of the tunnels had been inexplicable in a few areas he’d passed through when searching for Martin. It might not be a bad idea to cover his bases, in case something harder to traverse than the standard corridors cropped up.

He picked up another compass as well. And paid for the lot of the supplies, even the stupid sleeping bag, in spite of Martin’s protests.

* * *

And then,  _ finally,  _ it was time for them to go to the house.

The bolt cutter and sledgehammer had been left behind, since they would be overly cumbersome to bring over the garden wall, and since they would probably not be necessary if they were using the same entrance as Prentiss. The rest of the supplies somehow managed to be packed away into the rucksacks, with a little coaxing. There were enough backpacking tourists around during the summer that their gear wouldn’t draw undue attention on the way there. Everything was accounted for, as much as it could be.

They got lucky; Stadium Street seemed deserted when they made their way towards the house. The garden wall was rough and crumbling, with enough handholds and footholds to make getting over it relatively easy.

Once in the garden, they pulled on the dust masks and gloves. Jon went to the back door. It swung open at a touch; the frame of the door where the deadbolt would have been in place was rotted away. Jon hoped that was a good sign.

He gestured Martin to follow him inside. The inside of the house seemed relatively barren, which was fortunate since Jon didn’t want to have to turn on their torches in an area where light might be spotted through the windows from the outside. The floor of the home was littered with assorted rubbish and debris, but larger pieces of furniture weren’t really present- possibly the equipment had been removed after the raid. In any case, it was good for two reasons; they had fewer things to worry about stumbling over in the dark, and there were fewer areas where something might be hiding.

Martin followed him inside, and it didn't prove difficult to locate the stairs to the basement. Jon descended two stairs before pulling on the headlamp and switching it on. Hopefully, there weren’t any easily-visible windows in the basement, but in either case, Jon would need light to see anything down here. He continued down the steps.

There was more furniture in the basement; the light from their headlamps fell on bare metal shelving units, a handful of trestle tables, bare exposed wires, scattered piles of rubbish bags, and more assorted debris littering the floor. Jon motioned to the far left end of the space. “I’ll start over there, you take the opposite corner. What we’re looking for should be fairly obvious, I imagine.”

“Got it,” Martin replied, picking his way through the detritus towards the opposite wall.

Jon made his way to the other side. The wall was sturdy brick and stone, and it seemed solid enough when he tapped on it with the prybar. The shelving units were pushed against the wall, but they were empty and couldn’t have been concealing a door. Jon moved up and down the length of the wall twice before moving on to the next. And then the next. Nothing.

“There isn't anything here! No door, no hole in the wall, not even a cupboard,” Jon growled, frustration washing over him in a smothering wave. Was this the wrong place entirely? Had it all been for nothing?

“Jon? I think I might have found something,” Martin called, and Jon hurried over to where he was standing, in the centre of the room. What Jon had initially taken for a squat table or other random piece of furniture was nothing of the sort.

It was an old well, probably a holdover from back before the place had running water. It had at one point been capped with a heavy concrete slab, which now laid on the ground next to the well, exposing the gaping black void descending into the earth. Leaning over the side and having his headlamp shine down into the darkness did not reveal any telltale gleam of water within. Dry, then, probably. Though the beam didn't illuminate any bottom to the well, either; the light seemed to just dissipate into the darkness.

“Do... do you suppose this is how Prentiss got into the tunnels?” Martin asked, sounding like he wanted the answer to be ‘no’.

“It could be,” Jon replied, stooping to grab a random piece of detritus-- a chunk of ceramic, maybe part of a mug. He tossed it into the well. A moment later, there was a dull, echoed  _ clunk. _ “It doesn't seem like there's any water in it any more, at least.”

“And it's not bottomless, either,” Martin added with a relieved sigh.

Jon looked at him.

“It could have been bottomless!” Martin replied defensively.

“...moving on,” Jon said, slinging his rucksack off his back to root around for the packed rope. He hadn’t thought they would need this quite so soon. Hopefully there wouldn’t be more problems like this, because Jon hadn’t thought to buy two ropes. “See if you can find somewhere we can tie this to, would you?”

“I don't know if I like this, Jon. An entrance like this… what if something cuts the rope while we're down there?” Martin asked.

“Worst case scenario, we’ll just have to come out through the Institute instead,” Jon replied, starting to tie knots in the rope at regular intervals.

“And if something is chasing us? Climbing out of here, it won't exactly be fast.”

“... we'll just have to lose it, or find a way to slow it down first. In the unlikely scenario that occurs.”

“That seems like it will be a lot easier said than done.”

“What else do you expect me to do, Martin? This is the one location aside from the Institute that we know we can access the tunnels from. Finding another might take months, and with no guarantee of the entrance being any safer than this one.”

“... fine. But I'll go first,” Martin said, grabbing the end of the rope and taking it over to the stairs’ banister. He tied the end off securely and gave the rope a hard yank. The solid, bolted banister didn't give way.

“You? I'm the one demanding that we go down there, I should--”

“If we're doing this, then I'm going first,” Martin repeated as he walked back to Jon and the well.

“...if that's the way it has to be,” Jon muttered. He pulled his rucksack back on. “Be careful.”

Martin heaved a long sigh, then lowered the other end of the rope into the well. He slung one leg over the edge, gripped the rope tightly, and slowly began to lower himself down. Jon leaned over the side and watched the light from Martin's headlamp grow more distant. He could still see the glow when the movement stopped.

“Ugh,” Martin's voice echoed back up from the depths.

“Are you all right?” Jon called down.

“Yeah. Just… there's worms down here. Squashed ones, I think. Kind of hard to tell; they've been dead a while. Prentiss did come this way, or at least she was here at one point.”

“Well, at least it's confirmation. Hold on, I'm going to lower the end of the tape measure. Let me know when it's at the base.”

It turned out that the well was almost six metres deep. That meant that the tunnel they were in was likely to be one level below the Institute tunnels, unless there was a significant upwards slope to the tunnels. They'd need to keep their eyes out for stairs.

Jon managed to make it down to the base of the well without breaking his neck, though he did almost boot Martin in the head because the man decided to stand directly below the rope and damn near blind Jon with his headlamp. “ That was not helpful, Martin,” Jon grumbled, once he got on solid ground. Or, more accurately, squelchy ground. Jon looked down. “Urgh.”

“Sorry. I just- I thought that I might have to catch you.”

“So that there could be  _ two _ of us injured at the bottom of a well with no one to get help, instead of just the one?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Let's just get started,” Jon said, as he pulled out the compass. The needle pointed steadily in one direction, and judging from the side of the well the rope was hanging down and Jon's recollection of the layout of the house, it did seem to be north. A sliver of good luck, then. He shouldn't rely on the thing, but at least it seemed to be working for now.

“The Institute should be in that direction,” Jon said, pointing. He handed the compass off to Martin and drew out the mapping paper and clipboard. “I'll focus on the mapping for now, and you can keep us orientated and mark the way back with the chalk, just in case. At the very least, that should give us an indication if we start retracing our old paths.”

Martin nodded. “Okay. I'll number the arrows I draw at any intersections, so that it'll be easier to reference them against the map if we end up doubling back.”

“Good idea.”

* * *

Several hours in, and they had made little progress. The tunnels were a complete mess, twisting and interlaced like so much tangled thread, and much of their time had been spent following a tunnel that circled back around to a location they had been before. It was infuriating, especially with how much time it took to properly map out each new corridor they went down. At least they were slowly making their way out in a radius from the well. The pace was frustrating, but Jon supposed it was better than being entirely lost. At least they would have reasonable records of all the ground they had covered before, if they had to return several times.

They had gone forty yards down one corridor when Martin spoke up.

“Uh, Jon? I don't- I don't think we should go this way.”

“Why not?”

“Well, take a look,” Martin said, holding out his hand towards Jon.

Jon looked down at the compass Martin held. The needle of it was slowly rotating clockwise, around and around and around. A faint buzz of sensation started to build in the back of Jon’s skull, a feeling of the earth beginning to tilt out from under him. Jon managed to tear his eyes away from the compass, shaking his head violently. “No. No, definitely not. We need to find a different way,” Jon agreed, glancing back over his shoulder at the darkened tunnel. Nothing looked amiss, but the disorientating sensation still hummed at the edges of his perception. “Let’s go back.”

They quickly backtracked to a point where the compass resumed its normal behavior, and Jon took a moment to mark down that previous area of the map with a 'No'. After a moment’s consideration, he underlined the word, and considered the ground they had covered. “Let’s try taking the northwest exit from intersection… thirty-six.”

* * *

After a few more hours and several dozen more tunnels, Jon nearly jumped out of his skin when an unexpected noise broke the almost supernatural stillness of the tunnels. An instant later, he registered that it was a soft, high-pitched beeping noise behind him, and Jon whirled on Martin. “What is that?”

Martin fumbled with his watch and the noise turned off. “That’s the alarm that says its eight am. You’ve been awake for more than twenty-four hours, and it’s time for us to take a break,” Martin explained, shrugging out of his rucksack. He set it on the ground and started digging through it.

“Ah. So, you’re still insisting on this, Martin?”

“On you actually eating and sleeping on occasion? Yeah. Here,” Martin replied, tossing a packet of trail mix at Jon, which Jon just barely managed to catch. “That one’s got M&Ms in it.”

Jon sighed and opened the packet. Martin pulled out one of his own, as well as two bottles of water. Jon took the offered bottle as well, and settled on the floor of the corridor near Martin. “Sleeping, too?”

“Yes, Jon, sleep is actually a requirement for human beings,” Martin replied, tossing back the rest of his trail mix and starting to roll out the sleeping bag. “I’ll take first watch, and we can switch after three or four hours. Is that all right?”

“I suppose it will have to be,” Jon muttered as he finished his own snack. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel the fatigue starting to wear on him. Resting his eyes for a little while was probably a good idea, no matter how much he wanted to keep pressing forward.

Martin finished laying out the bag before shifting to sit against the opposite wall.

Jon begrudgingly laid down and turned to face the wall of the corridor, curling up in the unzipped bag. Slumber rose up in a black wave to drag him under.

* * *

Jon jerked awake to the feeling of a hand on his shoulder.

“Jon! Jon, get up! We need to go, now!” Martin exclaimed.

“What’s going on?” Jon asked, spilling out of the sleeping bag and scrambling to his feet.

Martin held out the compass again. The needle was spinning again, and this time it was getting faster as Jon watched it. “I think something’s coming, we need to go!”

Jon jerked his head in a nod and snatched up his supplies, slinging the rucksack onto his back in an instant and scooping up the sleeping bag. The buzz was building at the back of his mind again, and Jon didn’t like the sensation one bit. “Go, run!”

“Not on my own!” Martin grabbed Jon by the hand and took off down the tunnel, dragging Jon along. The both of them dashed down the corridor, scrambling for purchase around the bends and racing through intersections without thought.

Jon’s lungs were burning and his side was screaming in agony by the time that he felt the buzz in his head slowly subside, and finally fade away entirely. 

“Martin! The… compass,” Jon gasped out, and Martin slowed for a moment to check the compass. It must have seemed normal again, because Martin stopped running and let go of Jon’s hand.

“I think… we… lost it…” Martin wheezed, collapsing against the wall of the corridor.

Jon heaved a sigh of relief, slumping against the opposite wall. “Good. That… that was close,” he said.

“Any idea of what…?”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve come across any statements specifically like this. It could have been anything.”

“Great,” Martin mumbled. Then he raised his head and looked around. “Um… where are we?”


	21. Chapter 21

Jon felt his stomach sink. “...Well, let’s not panic. We should go back to the last intersection. There has been a lot of overlap between the tunnels in this section; it’s not impossible that we doubled back to somewhere we’ve been before.” The tunnel they were currently in certainly didn’t seem familiar, but that didn’t have to mean anything.

Martin swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

They stayed where they were for a few more moments, catching their breaths. Finally, Jon pushed off from the wall. “Might as well start now. Keep an eye on the compass; let me know if we’re going to be expecting company.”

“Right.”

The intersection they reached did not show any sign of chalk arrows. Of course, that would have been too easy. Jon eyed the branching paths before them and felt unpleasantly aware that he wasn’t even certain which exit they had come through, moments ago. How many intersections had he and Martin dashed by? Jon couldn’t remember. “I don’t suppose that you remember the way back, do you?” he asked.

Martin bit his lip, looking over the paths they might have come. He shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

Jon sighed. “Neither do I. And even if we could remember, backtracking that way probably isn’t the best idea, since we don’t want to come across… whatever that thing was, back there.”

“But we  _ do  _ have to get back to the well, though, or at least the Institute.”

“We will. Just…” Jon pulled off his rucksack and got out the mapping supplies. He shuffled to a blank page. “We’ll start mapping again, from this point. Eventually, we’ll have to come across something that will allow us to orientate ourselves.”

“...okay. Okay, that should work,” Martin replied, and it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. He dug through his pockets for a piece of chalk and used it to mark and number the intersection they found themselves in, as well as the tunnel they had just come from. “Do you want to try one of the opposite tunnels, or…?”

Jon shook his head, sketching out the intersection and marking the likely tunnels they may have emerged from. “I think we should see where the other end of the tunnel we were in before goes. It might connect back to our known passages. And if it doesn’t, we can try circling around in the general direction we think we came from. Coming from a different angle hopefully means we’ll be less likely to encounter that… thing.”

Martin shivered and nodded, following Jon back into the corridor.

* * *

The intersection at the opposite end of the tunnel also displayed no marks of their passage. Nor did the next one, or the next, or the next. And the way that the tunnels twisted, the lack of any discernible pattern to the eclectic architecture of the place, meant that Jon wasn’t even sure which direction  _ was _ the way back. His best guess was just that, and Martin’s wasn’t any better.

They were well and truly lost, and the excruciating pace they had to adopt to properly map the corridors they wandered through didn’t help Jon’s growing sense of dread and agitation.

Nothing looked familiar, nothing felt familiar, and the worried glances he could feel Martin shooting his way weren’t helping. There was no sense of progress, just a worrying sensation that they were getting themselves more and more lost.

“How long have we been doing this?” Jon finally asked, rubbing one temple in a futile attempt to ease the headache that was starting to pound through his skull.

Martin checked his watch. “Well, it’s about 6 pm, so… six hours, give or take.”

“Wonderful. About as much time as we had to work from where we started, we’ve spent wasting time without having any idea of where we are. We spend hours wandering around in bloody circles, and the one time when it would actually be  _ convenient  _ to have doubled back on ourselves, we manage to find a straight shot away to god knows where!” Jon growled in exasperation, and aimed a grumpy kick at the tunnel wall.

The wall gave way under his toe. Not like the stone was breaking apart, but like the wall was made of something soft and malleable.

Jon blinked. He reached out and touched the wall. His hand came away tinged with red. “Oh.”

“What’s-- oh. That’s not good,” Martin said.

“No, it… It actually is. I know where we are, now.” Jon absentmindedly wiped his hand on his pants and started to dig through his rucksack for the street maps he had packed. “Mr. Silvana encountered something like this in his statement, and he entered the tunnels near Pall Mall. Which means that we should be near that location as well. And it means we need to head towards the southwest, to get back to the well. Hmm. It seems like we’ve been heading in the exact wrong direction for quite a while...”

“Isn’t that the statement where some poor man died down here with an absolutely horrified expression on his face?”

“I’m pretty sure it was the Leitners that did that. We should be fine,” Jon muttered, squinting at his handmade map and the streetmap, trying to line things up.

“Yeah, okay, but even so I think we should probably still leave the area where the walls are bleeding.”

“All right,” Jon conceded, and followed Martin back down the corridor.

* * *

It wasn't exactly easy for them to make their way back now that they somewhat had their bearings. There wasn't any straight path to proceed southwest, and they were constantly playing a game of two steps forward, one step back with the winding of the corridors. Fatigue had slowed their pace to a crawl, but every time he and Martin stopped to eat and take a moment's rest, Jon's skin started crawling, like he was sure there was something coming after them, just waiting for them to stop moving long enough to strike. He pressed them to get moving again as soon as possible, and Martin relented. Jon wasn't sure if the man was just humoring him or if he also felt the same creeping anxiety.

Jon didn't want to ask, afraid that having Martin share his fears would make them real.

But at least there was a sense of progress being made. Especially when they came across the staircase.

It was an out-of-place looking thing, with an ornate wrought-iron handrail spiralling around the helix of stairs visible on their current level. The stairs pierced upwards towards the higher levels- likely where the Institute and Gertrude were- as well as descending downwards into unknown depths.

Jon immediately started heading towards it.

“Jon,” Martin said. “I really, really feel like we should be focusing on finding a way back out of here first.”

Jon paused. He  _ wanted  _ to go up those stairs, to finally find Gertrude and all the answers he’d been looking for.

But he’d been on his feet for the majority of the last twenty-four hours. He was running on fumes, and the room where Gertrude’s body lay was near the Archives and through another large, disorentating expanse of tunnels.

He heaved a sigh, tearing his gaze away from the stairs. “I suppose you’re-- wait a moment.” He looked back at the stairs. There was a fist-sized lump of something laying on the ground near the curve of the steps. Jon went to go investigate.

“Jon!”

“Calm down, I’m not going on the stairs,” Jon replied, nudging the object with one toe.  It rolled out of the dusty corner without any resistance. “You said you came across some wine bottles and other rubbish when you were down here before, didn't you?”

“Yes?”

“Hmm.” Jon picked up the wadded crisp packet and smoothed it out. The expiration date stamped on the back dated it as being at least five years old. “Do you suppose that Prentiss ate crisps?”

“I, I don't know. I can't really imagine her going to a corner shop. And with the whole… hole thing, if she did, eating anything would probably get messy.”

Jon shuddered at that mental image. “It's an old packet, anyway; probably not something she would have had down here in the last few months. And it hasn't got any holes in it. It seems likely that there's been someone else down here. Someone human enough to be able to eat…” Jon muttered.

“Well, someone already came down here to shoot Gertrude, right?”

“Yes, but to come so far out? And likely quite a while ago… I don't like this.”

“Looks like we're on the same page, then,” Martin replied, glancing nervously toward the stairs. “We're still a ways from the well. And we’re going to want to make sure we can get back in time to leave the house before the morning...”

Jon sighed and dropped the crisp packet. “I suppose you're right. Let's go.”

* * *

Even at their now glacial pace, it didn’t take them much more than an hour before they came across the first of Martin’s older arrows. The stairs weren’t all that far away from their initially explored tunnels, which was infuriating. If they hadn’t had to waste all their time just finding the way back…

Martin just seemed to be happy to be back within charted territory. “Okay, this is number 79… Where is that, on our old map? Are we anywhere near the place where the compass started going haywire? It seems all right so far, but...”

“Hm. Well, if nothing else, we’ve succeeded in giving that area a wide berth,” Jon replied as he checked his notes. “We’re practically on the other side of the map.”

“Well, that’s a relief! Hopefully the, er, whatever it was, is territorial or something.”

“Hopefully. Still, make sure you keep an eye on that compass. What time is it?” Jon asked.

“It’s… 12:17 am,” Martin replied, checking his watch.

“Past midnight. Right, we should be able to leave the house without being spotted, then. Get your dust mask and gloves on, we're heading back.”

* * *

 

 

Fortunately, the rope still seemed to be in place when they returned to the well.

Unfortunately, climbing six metres in the air while utterly exhausted was not an easy task.

Jon managed to get to the lip of the well with the aid of some heart-pounding adrenaline provided when he’d slipped and nearly lost his grip two thirds of the way up. He spilled onto the floor of the basement and tried to convince his limbs to stop shaking. 

Martin emerged from the well shortly afterwards, hauling himself out with a groan. “Are you okay?”

“As much as I can be, I think. You?” Jon replied.

“Yeah, I think so. Let’s get out of here.”

Jon nodded and started towards the basement steps. He stopped when his headlamp light fell on the stairway.

The point where the rope had been tied to the banister was now essentially grafted to the wall with cobwebs. It took up almost half of the stairway. Jon didn’t want to go near that. He especially didn’t want to go past it with his headlamp turned off, which is something he really should do, so that the light wouldn’t shine into the main floor of the house and out through the windows.

“What’s the matt-- Oh. ...well, at least it’s secure?” Martin tried.

“It’s…. It certainly is that,” Jon replied, still not moving forward. “We… should probably just leave it where it is.”

“Probably. Do you want me to go first?”

“‘...I think that would be best,” Jon said.

Martin nodded, walking the last few yards to the stairs before shutting off his headlamp and proceeding up the steps. Jon listened to the creak of his tread after his feet disappeared from view. “All clear, looks like. You can come up now. Do you want me to shine a torch down the stairway?”

Would being able to see the web make it worse? Maybe. But Jon still wanted to keep an eye on it. It was silly to think that the mass would somehow reach out and drag him inside, smother him under countless layers of thick, blinding silk. It was Martin’s web, and Martin didn’t want to hurt him. He would be fine.

But Jon couldn’t stop thinking about the squirrel, caught in the webs in the park. Had Martin wanted to hurt it? Very likely not. But it still ended its life terrified and caught in a web.

“If you could,” Jon replied, reluctantly moving closer to the stairs. It wasn’t as though he had any other option, really. The only other way out of the basement was through the well, and that was almost certainly more dangerous. “From a few stairs down, please.”

“Right,” Martin replied, and Jon listened to a few descending creaks, and then the click of Martin’s torch turning on.

Jon turned off his headlamp, held his breath, and edged up the stairs.

This close, he could see the faint movement of long-legged things within the depths of the snarl of material. But the web did not ensnare him as he passed by, and once he got past it, he dashed up the rest of the stairs to where Martin stood. “Let’s go.”

Martin nodded and switched off his torch. They both made their way back out of the house in the dark. In the garden, they pulled off the dust masks and gloves, and did their best to pack away anything that might look overly suspicious.

The street was thankfully deserted, and they were able to slip out of the back garden unnoticed and make it back to the main thoroughfare without incident. They were even able to catch the last train of the night back.

Jon sat down, attempted to ignore the group of drunk students chattering near the middle of the train, and quietly fumed.

They had frustratingly little to show for their efforts. They still had an entire second level to search before they could find Gertrude, and that was assuming that there weren’t any more catastrophic setbacks facing them in those tunnels. Not to mention the unexplained signs of human activity. More bloody mysteries...

And now they would need to wait an entire week to go back into them at all, unless Jon wanted to risk exposure for a scant few hours of exploration and a complete lack of sleep for the next day’s work in the Archives--

Jon's aggravated musings were interrupted when he felt something soft and heavy settle on his shoulder. He looked down.

Martin had listed to the side and now was slumped in his seat with his head resting on Jon's shoulder. There was a moderate jolt of alarm before Jon heard the deep, steady rhythm of Martin breathing. Just asleep, then. It made sense; Jon had at least gotten a few hours of sleep before they had been chased through the tunnels, but Martin had been awake for almost two days straight, now. Jon felt a little pang of discomfort for only remembering that fact now.

Jon sighed and let him sleep. At least for the ten minutes until their stop was next.

“Martin,” he said, slightly shifting the shoulder that Martin was resting on.

“Muh? What?” Martin mumbled, stirring back into half-wakefulness. He didn't lift his head off of Jon's shoulder.

“We need to get off the train.”

“M’not on a tr-- ah!” Martin finally seemed to wake up and jerked away from Jon. “Sorry, I didn't mean to, uh…”

“Fall asleep? It's not surprising. It’s been a rough night. And day. But we didn't miss our stop, so it's fine. We're almost home now.”

“Right,” Martin agreed, looking away to grab his gear and lurch to his feet as the train came to a stop.

The both of them staggered back to the apartment. Everything in Jon was screaming for sleep, but there were other considerations he had to address. He snagged Martin’s sleeve as the man attempted to make a beeline for the sofa.

“Wait. You need to change your clothes. And shower. We don’t know what kind of contaminants we might have come in contact with,” Jon said, as he pulled out a black rubbish bag from his rucksack. “Put your old clothes in there.”

Martin blinked at him with glassy eyes and nodded jerkily before he took the bag and went into the lavatory.

Jon removed the maps and put them on the coffee table before quarantining the rucksacks in more rubbish bags and banishing them to the fire escape.

Finally Jon took one more bag and left for his en suite to take his own shower. Afterwards, he waited in his bedroom for the sound of the other shower turning off and the toilet door creaking open before Jon collapsed on the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some art, now: <https://mira-eyeteeth.tumblr.com/post/186723705991/jon-and-martin-heading-back-after-getting-lost-in>


	22. Chapter 22

Jon didn't wake up until well into the afternoon, though he had the uneasy but indistinct memory of many nightmares. Not really a surprise, that.

He got out of bed and onto legs that vociferously objected to being put back to work so soon. Jon overruled their objections with a wince and headed into the sitting room.

Martin was still laid out on the sofa, fast asleep and snoring softly. Jon hadn't actually caught him sleeping before, had he? Aside from that last night of the first week, he supposed, but Jon didn't like to think about that. At least for now Martin still seemed to have the standard amount of limbs. Jon quietly gathered up the maps from the coffee table and took them to his desk. First things first, linking up the two separate maps, as well as seeing if the tunnel patterns aligned at all with any surface landmarks.

He also needed to make a copy of the maps. The tunnels had proved themselves dangerous, and somehow losing or damaging the maps during the next excursion wasn't out of the realm of possibility. Jon didn't want to let all the work they'd currently put in go to waste.

Eventually, Jon finished with the majority of the mapping, noting that the tunnels they had explored seemed to have almost no correlation with the arrangement of the streets and buildings above them. Jon supposed it must have been deep enough to not have conflicts with intersecting any utilities. Maybe the upper level would have a more understandable layout.

Jon’s stomach growled. Right, food. He glanced over at the sofa; Martin was still asleep. Jon elected to order pizza; he was in no mood to cook and Martin seemed to be completely knackered.

After the pizza arrived, Jon set it on the table and went over to the sofa. “Martin.”

Martin jerked upright with a gasp, eyes snapping open. There was a flicker of alarm, bordering on terror, in Martin’s wide eyes for an instant, before he seemed to recognize Jon. He let out a shuddering breath and relaxed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Hi, Jon. Sorry, nightmares. Did, did you need something?”

Jon supposed it only made sense for Martin to have nightmares. He had more reasons for them than most. “You should eat something before you sleep right through to Monday.”

“What? What time is- oh.” Martin’s gaze landed on the wall clock, illuminated by the late afternoon sun slanting in through the window. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep for so long.”

“You aren’t actually obligated to help me when you're off the clock, Martin,” Jon replied. “I ordered a pizza.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Martin said, shedding the sheet and getting off of the sofa.

* * *

They made quick work of at least half of the pizza before a conversation was attempted. “So, the clothes are still in the lavatory, in the rubbish bag. Do you want me to do anything with it? And, the, the shoes. I’m guessing you want to go back in the tunnels, and I only really have the two pairs, including the ones I wore last night. Should I try picking up some extras from the charity shop?”

Jon chewed his bite of pizza thoughtfully. “The clothes we should dispose of. I think we can still use the shoes, as well as the rucksacks and the rest of the equipment for the next excursion, provided we douse them in enough disinfectant spray first.”

“Right. Um, how do we dispose of the clothes? I mean, I know you mentioned burning, but… where?”

Jon paused. They couldn’t very well light a fire in Jon’s apartment. “...Well, we’ll have to take them to the outskirts of town, or something. I’ll figure it out. We can likely leave the clothing in the bags for now, at least until they start moving.”

Martin shot a worried glance towards the toilet. 

* * *

 

The rest of the week passed agonizingly slowly. It just wasn’t feasible for them to mount another excursion until at least Friday, which meant Jon had to be patient until then. He and Martin took one evening to go out to a camping ground near town and set the contaminated clothing alight. Another evening was spent getting the storage locker in order. The rest of the week, Martin once again made himself scarce outside of work hours. He did promise to find a different place to sit in the park, at least.

Jon wasn’t happy with that arrangement, but he also wasn’t happy with the idea of spiders infesting his apartment, so it would have to do for now.

Finally, they were able to steal into the tunnels once more.

The woven mass clinging to the wall of the basement stairwell like a cancer didn’t seem to have grown any further since the last week, but Jon still held his breath as he inched past it, back pressed to the opposite wall.

Jon was sure that there were more cobwebs in the basement proper now, even leaving aside the stairwell one. Jon tried not to think about a web being spun across the opening of the well while he was down in the tunnels.

Once down the well, it was significantly easier to make their way to the stairs, with use of a map. The hard part would be the mapping of the upper level, or so Jon thought.

The upper level proved to be notably different to the lower level, though. It was still a maze, but in a unsettlingly different way.

“I don’t like this. Look at the way this has been laid out. Back where we started, there were almost no dead ends- everything just seemed to double back on itself or unravel even further into more tunnels. And now? We’ve essentially been bottlenecked into this one direction. There's still some meandering, but most of the offshoots seem to terminate abruptly, or end in rooms....” Jon said, tracing a finger over the paths he had mapped.

“I mean, this is the route we would want to be on anyway, isn’t it? Judging from the compass and the map, we’re headed right toward the Institute,” Martin pointed out.

“We are. It feels almost like we’re being herded towards it. Or that the tunnels have been designed to funnel towards the Institute. And neither of those possibilities suggest anything good.”

“It could also just be a coincidence.”

“I don't trust coincidences that seem to work in my favour.”

“Well, all right, but I don’t think there’s a lot we can do about that right now. I’ll let you know if I see a complaints box on any of the walls, though.”

Jon gave Martin a withering look.

Martin held up his hands. “Hey, you’re the one who keeps wanting to come down here.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Jon muttered, but kept moving. “Keep an eye out for any familiar landmarks; we should be getting close.”

* * *

They were indeed close; they made it to the room where Martin claimed to have found Gertrude within a half hour.

They put on their gloves and Jon pulled open the door.

It was like Martin had described it; a bare little square room, several boxes of tapes, and in the centre, Gertrude’s body, slumped in a chair.

The floor was strangely clean; no blood splatters around the chair or on the walls. The front of Gertrude’s blouse was caked with blood that was so old it looked black; the stains spread out from three dark bullet holes that seemed to stare out of Gertrude’s torso in the light of the headlamps.

There was surprisingly little decay. It must have been dry enough in the tunnels for the body to have gone through some kind of natural mummification process. The skin was withered and stretched tight over Gertrude’s bones, thin and leathery.

Jon stepped into the room, eyes on the corpse. He’d come here for the tapes, and he would be taking those, but it was hard to resist the fascination that gripped him at the sight of the motionless figure.

Gertrude. His predecessor. A person, he suspected, with a great many more secrets than he had ever originally thought. Someone whose mysteries he was utterly mired in and only just beginning to unravel.

_ As you are now, so once was I… _ Jon shivered and pushed the morbid thought away.

Gertrude’s head was slumped forward, with only wispy white hair visible. Jon was suddenly struck with a grim curiosity. Antonio Blake’s statement had mentioned dreaming a surpassingly fearful expression on Gertrude’s face. Was that element correct?

Jon stooped so he could get a better look.

The face was expressionless, barely a face at all after death and time had made their mark on it. The nose was gone, the lips shrunken back away from the teeth, the cheeks gaunt and sunken.

But the eyes...

The eyes were still intact, which Jon was fairly sure shouldn’t have been possible. The iris was a discoloured, milky white, but the pupils were still black as pitch. Jon had the unpleasant impression that they were still staring, after all this time.

Jon swallowed and straightened up, taking a step back from the corpse.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked from the doorway.

“I… As much as I can be, I believe,” Jon replied. He still watched Gertrude’s corpse. There was a sense of weight in the air, like he owed some response to his predecessor. Something to provide a sense of closure. “...I’ll find out who did this,” Jon finally told her. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

Then he left Gertrude where she sat and began to collect up the tapes with Martin. For all the import that Jon suspected was held within the tapes, it was almost disappointingly fast work. The tapes were slotted fastidiously into the boxes, fitted together with efficiency enough to fit hundreds of tapes into three filing boxes. It didn’t take the two of them more than five minutes to gather what they needed, wipe down the doorknob, and leave the little room once more.

“Did you get everything you wanted?’ Martin asked, setting his boxes down in the corridor outside.

Jon took once last look back at the room, at Gertrude’s corpse. It looked oddly lonely, in that room with the tapes removed. “Yes. We have everything we need,” he said.

“All right. You might want to stand back a bit, then.”

“What for- Nnghk!” Jon’s question was cut off by a strangled yelp when he noticed the spiders descending from the ceiling. And skittering along the walls. And creeping over the floor. Dozens of spiders, all with a leg span at least as wide as Jon’s palm, and all converging on them.

No, not on them. On the room. The spiders streamed into the room where Gertrude remained, and then they got to work. Webs began to be spun in the corners, over the chair legs, across the floor.

Jon scrambled backwards with a few frantic glances behind him to make sure there weren’t any awful things approaching from the rear. “What... what are you doing?” he managed to gasp out, torn between wanting to put his back against the wall to be as far away as possible, and not wanting to expose any more of his skin to surfaces where spiders might scuttle from.

“Covering our tracks,” Martin replied. Jon watched, unable to look away, as a hairy brown spider the size of a tea saucer emerged from an unzipped pocket of Martin's rucksack. It crept over Martin's shoulder and down his outstretched arm before descending to the floor on a single, gleaming thread. “There's gaps in the dust where the boxes were left. This way, the police shouldn't be able to notice.” 

Jon swallowed, glancing back into the room to see one spindly black spider skitter across Gertrude’s slack, desiccated fingers. Jon shivered. “I… see. That… that makes sense,” he croaked, feeling his skin crawl.

“I think they can take it from here,” Martin said, turning away from the room to look at Jon with a smile. “We're almost done! Shouldn't be too far away from the Institute at this point. Let's head back towards there, finish up the map, and then we can take the tapes back home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's art for this chapter now: [ https://mira-eyeteeth.tumblr.com/post/187517321661/martin-is-helping-another-scene-from-my-tma-fic](https://mira-eyeteeth.tumblr.com/post/187517321661/martin-is-helping-another-scene-from-my-tma-fic)
> 
> Oh, and I suppose I can plug another piece, a lovely creepy web!Martin that was inspired by the fic. [https://tanis-drawings-2point0.tumblr.com/post/181340450125/a-creepy-webmartin-bc-i-love-that-also](https://tanis-drawings-2point0.tumblr.com/post/181340450125/a-creepy-webmartin-bc-i-love-that-shit-also)


	23. Chapter 23

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded, not trusting his voice at the moment.

Martin bent to pick up the boxes again. “The Institute should be that way, right?” he asked, tilting his head to indicate the direction.

“I… I think so,” Jon replied falteringly. His eyes kept drifting back to the room where the skittering horde of spiders was attending to their task. Watching the activity made his stomach twist, but his mind was all too ready to supply all kinds of dreadful things that might happen if he stopped keeping an eye on the things.

“Are you all right?” Martin asked, and Jon heard him take a step closer. “You don’t need to worry. You don’t have any spiders on you.”

Jon hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought about that but now he couldn’t  _ stop  _ thinking about it. The web scar on his arm itched, and Jon shuddered, tearing his gaze away from the room. “Let’s-- let’s just go,” he said, clutching his box of tapes tighter and willing his legs to move at a reasonable pace down the tunnel. It was more difficult than expected; the preferred modes at the moment were apparently knock-kneed immobility or a headlong sprint. Jon viciously reined in the impulse to just  _ run _ ; the tunnels were unpredictable and cramped in some areas, and he couldn’t risk damaging the tapes.

Once they had made it around a few corners, the unease started to fade, or at least become more manageable. Jon let out a shuddering exhale. Mapping became a bit more difficult now that he was having to juggle the box on top of everything else, but at least it was a distraction.

Martin opted to keep drawing arrows along the walls, but stopped numbering the intersections. “It might be a little harder to navigate this way, but if you’re going to be telling the police you started from the Institute, explaining why you started numbering things counting down from something like four hundred and thirteen may be tricky,” he explained.

“Good point,” Jon agreed.

Even with the new considerations, it didn’t take them long to come across the decaying worm carcasses remaining from the attack, as well as the room that Tim had described in his recounting of the event. It was… disconcerting, to find out that his description of the worm-ringed doorway hadn’t been a wild imagining. Neither he nor Martin wanted to stay near there any longer than they had to. Martin seemed to be particularly uncomfortable, though that may have just been the stench.

Finally, they reached the cleaned areas of the tunnels, and shortly afterward, found the trapdoor. Jon heaved a sigh of relief. They had managed to get all the way back.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"It's… almost 2 pm. Wow, it really took us a lot less time than it did last week.”

“Yes, the things one can accomplish when not lost in an ever-winding hellmaze," Jon remarked.

"So, what should we do now? Do you think we can get out of the house without being spotted in the daylight?"

Jon considered this, and shook his head. "No, it's too risky. Especially with the tapes. We can't chance being apprehended and potentially losing them indefinitely."

"All right. Can’t really go out this way, either,” Martin muttered, looking up at the closed trapdoor. “So that means we need to kill some time. Probably not in the house, because, you know, contamination and such. So we’re down here for ten more hours?”

“Essentially.”

Martin sighed. “Well, I guess we can try catching up on some sleep.”

“...I suppose. We should probably do that on the second level, though. There’s too many potential dead ends on the upper level. If we end up being chased again…”

Martin shivered and nodded. “Right. Let’s get headed back, then.”

* * *

They found a relatively spacious intersection to set up camp, one far removed from the area where they’d nearly had an encounter before. They set the boxes against a wall, and Jon took the compass and extra torch to keep watch.

Martin settled into the sleeping bag, rolling onto his side to face the opposite wall. There was a moment of quiet, and then, "Jon?"

"You're supposed to be trying to sleep,” Jon said.

"I know, I will, I just… I was thinking, will I… Do you want me to find somewhere else to live? After we get out of here? I mean, you've got the tapes now, which is what you wanted my help for. I've kind of... kind of outlived my usefulness at this point. Should I start packing, when we get back?”

"...have you determined who murdered Gertrude in the last five minutes and merely neglected to inform me?" Jon asked.

"What? No."

"Then I can still use your help, can’t I?”

“...oh. Yeah, I suppose that makes sense,” Martin said.

“And besides, we still need to work together on the next phase. You wanted the police involved in this.”

“Right. That’s… that’s another reason why I thought you might want me to clear out. I mean, what if they come to your apartment and find me there?”

“Hmn. That seems unlikely. They would need a warrant to search my home, and then they would need to show up when you were present. And even if they do find out about you, it’s likely they would merely assume we’re sleeping together. Office romances may be scandalous, but they aren’t illegal.”

“...yeah, I, I guess that would probably happen. But wouldn’t that... bother you?”

“People making stupid assumptions? I suppose it does, on principle, but it’s not as though I haven’t had plenty of experience dealing with people jumping to ludicrous conclusions in essentially every statement I come across. I’m not about to complain about it if it works in my favour for once. ...So long as Tim doesn’t find out about it.”

Martin let out a muffled snort. “God, can you imagine? He would never let us hear the end of that.”

"It would be a rough few weeks, at least," Jon agreed.

"Yeah," Martin said, and silence descended onto them again. "...okay. Just… wanted to make sure. Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight."

Jon waited until Martin's breathing evened out into the deep and steady rhythm of sleep before he shuffled over to the boxes and began to very quietly sift through the tapes. Disappointingly few of them were labeled, and the ones that were didn't seem to be anything immediately useful.

He supposed that wasn’t surprising. He couldn’t very well expect there to be a tape labelled ‘The full name, description, and last known address of my murderer, by Gertrude Robinson’.

Given the lack of blood around the body, it seemed likely that Gertrude hadn’t been murdered in that room, and that she, and presumably the tapes, had been hidden away there by the killer afterwards.

That, or the walls and floor had... eaten the blood that fell on them, somehow. That wasn’t an idea that Jon liked to entertain. Just because the supernatural wasn’t always the product of an overactive imagination, it didn’t mean it was the answer for everything. Even in the tunnels.

Either way, the tapes had either been hidden there by the murderer, or hidden by Gertrude and purposefully left there by the murderer. Did that make it more or less likely that the identity of the killer could be found in them? Surely it would just be easier to destroy the evidence, if there was something directly tying them to the crime? Or had they assumed that the body and tapes would never be found?

Judging from the scattered labels on the tapes, most of which corresponded to the file dating system that was the same as the one found in the Archives, these were statements. Recorded by Gertrude? Or maybe just firsthand accounts provided by the public, instead of written ones?

It explained why there had been magnetic tape recording equipment in the Archives when he had started the job. But why would all of the tapes be down here, and none of the files?

One tape caught Jon’s eye. It had letters on it, as well as numbers; one of apparently very few. The label read ‘Changeling’.

Jon thought about Martin showing up at the Archives after going missing for two weeks. About him claiming to have come back from the dead. About how much more competent he seemed to be after the return…

Jon shot a glance over at Martin’s prone form. He hadn’t moved; still seemed to be asleep.

It could be nothing. It could be unrelated. But Jon couldn’t afford to leave a stone unturned when it came to this situation. He still didn’t have enough pieces of the puzzle. And, until he could be sure…

Jon carefully tucked the tape away into his rucksack, hiding it amongst the extra bandages near the bottom. He’d have to listen to it the next time he had a chance to be alone.

That done, Jon sat with his back to the wall again and occupied himself with watching the corridors for additional threats.

* * *

 

 

The remaining hours trickled away without incident, with Jon and Martin trading watch shifts partway through. Sleep didn’t come easy in the tunnels, but at least this time the only thing that woke Jon up were subconscious and not physical terrors.

They had needed to dump the tapes into rubbish bags and haul them up with the rope when they reached the well; tying the boxes to the rope was simply infeasible. Jon didn’t like it. What if the order of the tapes was important? But ordering wouldn’t matter if the box overturned while it was being brought up and the tapes smashed on the ground. So the boxes were abandoned and Jon pulled the bags up from the well while Martin secured them to the rope from the base of the well.

They managed to leave the basement without being devoured by spiders, though Jon was certain he saw more scurrying away from the light and into the corners than he had even just yesterday. Jon had never been so relieved to get out of a basement before. The idea of never having to go back to the house again was a huge relief.

After waiting a moment for a stray pedestrian to pass by the street, the both of them managed to scramble over the garden wall with the tape-laden bags held in one hand. After having to climb two stories vertically up a rope, the crumbling masonry hardly seemed a challenge at all.

Jon still didn’t relax until they were safely inside the apartment. They would have to store the tapes away in the locker later, after the police were involved, but for now he could keep them close. It was a comforting thought.

Both of them were awake enough to tend to the decontamination process without prompting, and when Martin disappeared into the lavatory, Jon took the opportunity to retrieve the changeling tape and hide it away in his bedroom.

He would get to the bottom of this.

* * *

 

 

By the time Jon had woken up on Sunday afternoon, Martin had disappeared. He had a brief moment of panic at that realization, and rushed to check the tapes.

They all appeared to be accounted for. Jon should really put some effort into cataloguing them, to be sure. But at least it seemed like Martin hadn’t taken them. ...or any of the rest of his clothes or belongings. He was probably at the park again, then.

That meant Jon had time alone. He could listen to what the changeling tape had in store. He could see if… it had anything to do with what happened to Martin.

And what if it did?

What if Martin was something else entirely? What could Jon do about that? Martin would come back later, and Jon…

Well, if he didn’t have the full picture, then he wouldn’t know what he could do. He had to know.

Jon fetched the tape.

* * *

 

 

Gertrude had been recording statements. She seemed… remarkably confident in her assessment of whatever the thing was. The Not-Them? It was a recurring entity, then, and something that could replace another person almost seamlessly...

The questions about why Gertrude had been recording statements and for how long (the date of this one was 1996, so at the very least Gertrude had been doing these recordings for almost twenty years), and why she had left the Archives in such an abysmal state… Well, those were important. Jon would have to investigate those.

But more pressing was the question: did this have anything to do with Martin?

Surely not. Martin didn’t seem to fit the thing’s modus operandi at all, did he?

Except that the Not-Them lied. It lied well. It enjoyed lying, it enjoyed tricking others. It changed their minds, their perceptions. It settled very nicely into living with someone who was sure it was someone else entirely, someone who they cared about. It showed a sweet, kind external appearance...

Magnetic tape kept the voice. So, it would be easy enough to prove one way or the other. Jon could just check Martin’s current voice against the original statement he gave…

No. No, that statement was after Martin disappeared. After Martin died. It wasn’t any proof at all.

Did Jon have any recordings of Martin before then? He had tried to avoid Martin as much as possible during that time period. He had sent Martin out, or shut himself away in his office and made it very clear he wouldn’t take interruptions kindly. Had Martin ever interrupted one of the recordings? Jon didn’t think so.

…Would Jon ever know what Martin's voice had sounded like?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tape that Jon listened to is the one that was listened to in episode 77, The Kind Mother.


	24. Chapter 24

Just what the hell was Jon supposed to do now? If Martin was… If the person he knew as Martin had always been…

And Jon was living with him. Martin, or whatever he actually was, would almost certainly return in the evening. And then… what?

Every time he had confronted Martin before, every time Jon had reason to start being suspicious of Martin, some new information was revealed that assuaged Jon’s doubts.

That seemed very convenient, especially since Jon knew that the Not-Them could essentially rewrite reality to slot itself into a position of trust, and that Martin had already demonstrated his capability to alter Jon’s thoughts.

Martin could be arranging things to make Jon trust him. But why? What was the purpose of that? What was the end-game here?

Jon had (as far as he knew) voluntarily offered to let Martin live with him. Jon had gone with him into the tunnels. Jon had passed by within inches of a massive web of Martin’s making, multiple times.

If the point of gaining Jon’s trust was to turn on him when Jon’s guard was down, it seemed unlikely that Martin wouldn’t have taken advantage of the multiple opportunities he had already been granted.

So Jon would be a means to an end, then. Some stepping stone on a way to a larger goal. But what was that target? The Archives? The Institute? One of the staff? The tapes?

Jon didn’t have enough information.

He didn’t even know for sure if he had been living with Martin’s killer for over a month. He…

Jon needed to know. He needed to be sure. But how?

He couldn’t confront Martin, couldn’t afford losing this lead as well.

He would just have to investigate this further. And keep Martin from finding out, somehow.

He had more resources at the Archives, he would probably have better luck finding things out tomorrow. But for now, he could at least see what information he could dig up on Lucy, Rose, and George Cooper. Maybe there was more information that had arose since Gertrude took the statement. He could make some calls and see what information he could find online and in newspaper archives. He could do that, at least, until Martin… until Martin returned.

Jon looked over to the kitchen. He hadn’t blocked his door with a chair since that first week, but now he desperately wanted that semblance of security. Martin would notice, though, if one of the chairs went missing.

Jon took one of the knives and his laptop into his bedroom. He would see what information he could dig up, and then he would turn in early tonight and avoid having to interact with Martin, at least until the morning.

* * *

 

Jon was lying in bed with the lights off and his thoughts gnawing at the appalling lack of additional supplemental information he could find. Lucy Cooper seemed to still be alive-- or, her name had been among the listed authors of a biography of Thomas Bodley published in 2015. Gertrude’s assessment of the thing moving on seemed correct.

Jon hadn’t been able to find contact information for Ms. Cooper, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He hadn’t been able to contact the publishers since it was Sunday and everything was closed. Maybe tomorrow, he could reach them and get a phone number, a forwarding address, something.

Would Ms. Cooper have anything useful to add after more than twenty years had passed? Doubtful. But it wouldn’t hurt to be thorough--

The sound of the front door lock snicking open made Jon’s heart rate spike. He held his breath as he listened to Martin walk into the apartment.

Martin had no reason to suspect that Jon was suspicious of him, yet. He’d been acting normally enough for the last month. Surely tonight wouldn’t be any different?

But Jon was still acutely aware of how thin a barrier his bedroom door was. He kept one hand tucked under his pillow, fingers tracing the handle of the knife in the darkness, and he listened to Martin go quietly about the apartment for several minutes.

After what felt like an eternity, the light spilling under the door from the sitting room was flicked off and the sofa creaked as a weight settled onto it.

See. Normal night, nothing to worry about.

Jon didn’t get much sleep.

* * *

 

Breakfast was unavoidable, at least unless he wanted to change his behaviour patterns and potentially alert Martin to the latest development.

But Jon wasn’t a morning person at the best of times. It wasn’t suspicious for him to skip small talk and keep his head down until they’d finished the meal and headed for the train station. The less he spoke with Martin, the less likely he was to give the game away.

(The less he looked at Martin, the less he had to wonder if he would ever know what Martin had really looked like.)

So Jon ate his breakfast in silence and attempted to ignore the other guest at the table. At least until--

“Jon?”

Damn. “What is it?”

“Are you feeling all right? You look a bit haggard.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” Jon replied.

“Oh. Is… is something wrong?”

Jon let out a short huff of breath. “It would probably take less time for me to list anything that’s _right_.”

“I… I mean, I thought that… I’ll just get you some more tea,” Martin said, rising from the table to grab the teapot. He topped up Jon’s mug.

Jon looked down at the dark, steaming fluid and tried to assure himself that there was no reason for it to be anything other than tea. All other considerations aside, he doubted that Martin wanted to kill him, especially not right now.

Besides, spiders were venomous, not poisonous.

* * *

 

Tim returned from his leave on that Monday, because of course he did. With him came a flurry of activity, of people barging in and out of Jon’s office, of files being rearranged and resorted and reassigned. Tim had to be set to following up on a great number of things, especially since Sasha was still having troubles with her computer.

That meant Jon had to sort out the tangled knot of what had been completed and what had not, where in the hell the background documents for the unfollowed up files had gotten to, who had been contacted already...

Consequently, Jon had almost no privacy with which to conduct further investigations into the situation with Martin. And thus had made no progress.

So Jon spent Monday evening desperately looking through Martin's desk after everyone else had gone. There had to be a clue, some remnant of the old Martin that had been left behind, something that Jon could find and see and be _sure_.

Jon sifted through piles of notes and print-outs, thumbed through the books scattered on the desk, rifled through folders and drawers--

There was a small stack of tapes stuffed into the back of the bottom drawer of Martin's desk.

Jon froze for a moment, his mind immediately going to the missing tapes from the attack. But how would Martin have gotten a hold of those? He'd been in the tunnels the whole time, hadn't he? Had Martin lied about getting lost? Ditched Jon and Tim intentionally? But when would he have doubled back to the Archives? It had been crawling with worms until the fire suppression system had been sent off, and after that it had been crawling with ECDC personnel.

Did Martin have an accomplice?

But there were more that three tapes. What were the others?

Jon pulled out the cassettes. None of the labels on them corresponded to the missing statements. Instead, there were nonsense words. "Biscuits", "Yonder", "Rains"...

Jon recalled that Martin had said he'd used the extra tape recorder to record his poetry. Was that what these were?

He quickly fetched a player and began to listen.

It was definitely poetry. Incredibly mediocre poetry.

And it meant that Jon had recordings of Martin's voice. But did it help? None of the tapes had dates on them, nor was there any date recorded before the beginning of the poem Jon had listened to. And even if there had been, there was no guarantee that the dates would be accurate. There was no way to be sure if any of these had been recorded before Martin's encounter with Prentiss.

Which meant they were worthless.

No, that wasn’t strictly true. If there was a different voice reading poetry on one of these tapes, then Jon would have proof that Martin had been replaced. There was just no way for the tapes to confirm that the man living in Jon’s home was really Martin. There was no good result that could come from the tapes.

But they were also the only clue that Jon had. Possibly the only chance that Jon had to ever hear Martin's real voice again.

Jon slotted another tape into the player. Still the same voice. And then another. No change. And then--

“Up high, above it all, the clouds hold the promise of rain with potential;

Carry the premise of waters to wash away the marks that everything bears;

The rains seek release, in downpours and outbursts and--”

The poem was interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open, and Jon's voice distantly saying Martin's name. There was a hurried shuffle of noise, and the recording clicked off.

That. Jon remembered that. He’d hunted down Martin in the storage room to ask him more questions regarding Dominic Swain's follow-up interview, and Martin had acted even more useless and panicked than normal. This was why; Martin had been wasting time recording his bloody _poetry_ while he was supposed to be working--

No, no, that wasn't important right now. What was important was that this was clearly a recording from before Martin went missing. And it was still the same voice.

Whatever Martin was now, he still had the same voice. Jon fought back the wave of relief that threatened to overwhelm his critical thinking. This didn’t necessarily mean this Martin was still the _same_ Martin. But at least whatever the thing was that replaced people, it seemed to be unrelated to Jon’s current situation.

(Whatever Martin was now, he did truly seem to want to help Jon.)

He would have to keep looking through the other tapes.

Jon took a moment to collect himself before he did his best to put Martin's desk back to the state it has been in before his frantic search.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems are canon! They're bonus content from Rusty Quill. (Though I did take some liberties with where they occur on the timeline.)


	25. Chapter 25

 When Jon returned to the apartment that evening, the first thing he noticed was that the whole place smelled like cinnamon. He paused for a second, then walked into the sitting room to find Martin curled up on the sofa with one of Jon's books.

Martin started a little when Jon walked into his line of sight. “Oh! You're back. I, um… Did you already have supper? Hmn, I probably should have thought this through more.”

Jon blinked. “This?”

Martin got off of the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two paper bags. “I got you a sandwich from that place on New Street. I remembered you mentioned you liked the food there. And I also got you a cinnamon bun. You, you don't need to eat them though, if you don't want to. Or if you're full. I'm afraid they might be a little cold now; I thought you would have come home sooner.”

“Why?”

“Well, I was hoping that you might have actually stopped being a workaholic in the last few weeks. My own fault, really.”

“No, not that. Why have you bought me food?”

“Well, I...You were in a really bad mood today. I kind of thought that getting the tapes would make you happy, but I guess it just put more weight on your mind or, or there was something else made you upset. And I know, I know that food can't fix the problems you're dealing with, whatever they are, but I thought that if it was something that I did that was wrong, then I could apologize for it. And if it's something else, that something nice might make you feel a little better? For a little while, at least?”

“...oh,” Jon said. There was an odd sensation in his torso. Probably hunger; cold or not, the food still smelled delicious. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Like I said, you don't need to--”

“No. I haven't eaten yet, so this will be… nice. Ehm, do you…?”

“Ah, yeah, I got one for myself, too. I just- I wasn’t sure if... Would you rather eat alone?”

“There's plenty of chairs at the kitchen table, Martin,” Jon replied, taking the bags from Martin and heading into the kitchen.

“Okay,” Martin said, and followed after him.

Silence settled over them as they fetched plates, and unpacked the food. Martin put the kettle on.

Jon made quick work of the sandwich; he belatedly realized that he had missed lunch today.

Martin, halfway through his own sandwich, pushed the plate with the cinnamon bun on it toward Jon. “Are… are you feeling any better?”

“A little more human, yes,” Jon replied, and then realized what he just said, and to whom. “Ah…”

Martin smiled. “It’s all right. I know what you meant. And I'm glad to hear it,” he said. There was a brief pause, then he continued.  “You can… you can talk to me. If you want to. About anything that’s bothering you. Or, or anything else you want to talk about. It doesn’t have to be right now. Just, you know, open offer.”

Jon thought about that, and couldn’t hold back a short huff of a laugh.

Martin looked away. “Okay. That’s… that’s fair. I do think you should have someone you can talk to, though. Someone else, a friend, or, or even a penpal or something. You were just talking about how isolation isn’t a good idea a little while ago, and--”

“No, I… I actually do think that I can talk to you. I was just thinking about how incredibly ironic it is, that it’s you who I’m most able to confide in,” Jon said.

Martin perked up. “Oh! Oh, well, I… Um, I’m sorry that you don’t have someone better, I suppose, but I guess it can be difficult finding people who really  _ get  _ the spooky aspects of--”

“Martin.”

“The  _ paranormal  _ aspects of the job. It’s probably even more difficult for you, what with that whole… sceptic persona you like to put on.”

“It’s not a persona. It’s perfectly reasonable to approach spurious tales with a healthy sense of scepticism no matter how real certain accounts might be,” Jon muttered.

“If you say so. But if your friends share the same point of view, then I bet it’s probably going to be difficult to get them to take you seriously if you need to talk about… well, most of the things we end up dealing with.”

Jon shrugged. “Maybe. I haven’t had the opportunity to test that theory since I started to work at the Institute, so the point is moot.”

“...oh. Well, I… I’m sure you’ll be able to prove me wrong eventually. In the meantime, though, do you want to talk about anything?”

Jon paused. He glanced down at the cinnamon bun, tore off a strip of the pastry, and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. After he was finished with the bite, he said, “I think we should talk about the next steps we have for the tunnels and Gertrude.”

Martin sighed. “Okay. You’ve got to ‘explore’ them a couple of times before we call the police, right?”

“Yes, at least twice. I stole the key to the trapdoor from Elias’ desk tonight, so access to the tunnels from the Institute shouldn’t be a concern,” Jon said.

Martin blinked. “Wait, you what?”

“It was easier and more secure than bringing the bolt cutters into the Archives.”

“I… I mean, that's true, but… Well, I guess it's done now,” Martin said, and sighed again. “And I’ll be meeting you from the other way in, then?”

“I… Are you going to be all right? Going through the tunnels alone?” Jon asked.

“Oh, I won’t be alone,” Martin replied immediately.

“You-- oh.” Jon winced. “Right. Still. You'll be okay?”

“Should be. I'll have the map, and the arrows. I think it should take under an hour to get to the Institute, by the most direct route. Cell phones won't work down there, though, so coordinating might be difficult. I wonder if we should get some walkie-talkies? They’ll probably function okay if we’re relatively close.”

“That’s… not a bad idea. I’ll see about picking some up. And then we can get started on Friday night.” Jon took another bite of the cinnamon bun.

“It’s… it’s a good thing neither of us have anything better to do on Friday nights, right?” Martin asked with an little half-smile.

“...What would be more important than getting this finished?”

“Nevermind.” 

* * *

Martin showed back up at the apartment relatively early, Tuesday evening. 

“Jon, I… don't freak out or anything, okay?” he said.

“An inauspicious start,” Jon muttered.

“It's… I'm pretty sure that it's nothing, but you got mad about me concealing information before, so, I'm pretty sure my desk was searched, last night. Everything was out of order, this morning. There wasn't any information about what we've been doing in there, so don't worry! And I don't think anything was taken. I just thought you might want to know.”

Jon blinked. So he hadn't been successful in covering his tracks. He'd have to get better at that. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“All right, thank you for informing me,” Jon added.

“...you're taking this really well.”

“You asked me not to ‘freak out’," Jon pointed out.

“Yeah, but I didn't think you'd listen to me. Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm sure it's nothing to be concerned about.”

“What? Why?”

Jon sighed. ”Because it was me.”

“You… Jon, I thought you said you'd stop stalking me,” Martin said, reproach in his voice.

“ It wasn't  _ stalking _ ,” Jon replied defensively. “If anything, it was the opposite, I wanted you to be as far away as possible when I was doing it.”

“That's not-- You went through my desk. If it's not stalking, it's still a pretty big invasion of privacy. Why couldn't you just ask?”

“I thought you could have been a monster,” Jon muttered.

“You… you what? Jon, I am a monster! I’m pretty sure we already established that! Did you forget about that whole thing somehow? How would you even do that?”

“No, not that, I thought you might have been a different monster.”

Martin looked confused. “Why would you think that?”

“There was a statement about a monster that replaced someone’s mother and I… Look, it isn’t important.”

“Replaced their-- Are you making a dig at me for making sure you actually eat?”

“What? No! I just-- That tape-- It felt like-- It made sense at the time. It seemed relevant. I don’t know how to explain it, exactly.”

“That’s probably not a great sign, Jon.”

“I… I know. I… There’s so many unknowns. So many mysteries. And I don’t know where to even start unravelling some of them. There are so many threats and if I could just  _ know _ … But I don’t. And it might be making me grasp at any possible leads I can find. Jumping at shadows.”

Martin sighed. “Should I start expecting you to have a paranoid breakdown at me every time you look at a new statement?”

“Well, are you secretly a mass of pestilence-carrying mosquitos?” Jon asked.

“Uh, no.”

“Then, no. I am not harbouring any delusions that you’re somehow to blame for every supernatural happening that has occurred.”

“Well, that’s something, at least.” Martin muttered.

“I… I’m sorry, Martin," Jon said.

Martin sighed again. “It’s… well, it’s not okay, but it’s expected, I guess. Just… I think it’s a waste of time, for you to keep jumping on suspicions about your allies instead of focusing on real threats. You’d have an easier go of it if you work together with people, instead of skulking around by yourself.”

_ I don’t know who’s an ally and who’s a real threat, that’s the whole problem.  _ “Maybe. I’m still working with you, at least. ...that is, assuming you’re still working with me.”

“I’m still with you, Jon. You need someone to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Just… I hope you’ll think about what I said.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Jon stole through the Archives. The rows and rows of shelves seemed larger and darker and more imposing, somehow, the feeling of being observed more pronounced.

It was silly; Jon had been in the Archives late at night dozens of times before. There was no reason for this to be any different. Just because he was navigating by torch didn't mean that the place was any more dangerous.

( _ It was plenty dangerous in broad daylight _ , a mutinous part of Jon murmured.)

Jon couldn't afford to keep jumping at shadows. He needed to keep moving forward.

The lock on the trapdoor opened with a satisfying click, and Jon pulled the hatch open.

Darkness and steep stairs greeted him, and Jon felt a bit dizzy, remembering Prentiss and the worms and the carbon dioxide. He shivered, shoving away those memories and the sensation of his skin crawling. He descended into the depths, closing the hatch behind him but pocketing the lock. He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around.

A pair of gleaming eyes stared out at him from the gloom, making Jon’s heart jump.

“Hi, Jon. We've got a couple hours to kill now, right? Do you know how to play Gin Rummy?” Martin asked, stepping forward and holding up a deck of cards.


	26. Chapter 26

Jon spent the rest of that evening learning that Martin was terrible at card games. He had some of the worst luck Jon had ever seen, and his poker face must be terrible, since Jon could always tell when Martin was close to victory and avoid playing into it. Which was perhaps a bit odd, since wasn’t Martin supposed to be good at lying?

He supposed it didn’t matter.

“Why did you even bring a deck of cards?” he asked, after winning the sixth hand.

“Well, I didn’t really expect you to keep winning this easily,” Martin muttered. “Also, it’s something portable and easy to keep occupied with.”

“Hmn. And you think that if you don’t keep me occupied, I might go charging off into the tunnels?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Martin admitted.

Jon leveled Martin with a flat look.

“You don’t seem to like it when I lie to you, Jon.”

Jon sighed. “Fair point. I suppose I’m not exactly one who can complain about a lack of tact. We are going to have to leave the base of the stairs next time, though, to make sure that everything is properly set up for when the police are brought to Gertrude.”

“All right,” Martin conceded. He gathered up the cards and began to shuffle them again. “Best seven out of eleven, then?”

* * *

 

Jon had been… reluctant, to listen to more of Gertrude’s tapes. Which was stupid, given how much he had wanted the damn things, but now just being near them seemed to make the oppressive sense of being observed grow stronger.

(Listening to them had made him feel like he was somehow being drained and set alight all at once, like there was something burrowing into his skull, like the answers he needed were at the bottom of a cliff and all he needed to do to get them was to just _jump_ …)

But he would be calling the police next week, and they would need to hide away the tapes when that happened. There was no telling how many opportunities he would have to access the tapes after that.

But determining the right tape to listen to was difficult. None seemed to jump out to him, and half weren’t even labelled at all. How could he find one that was relevant?

Well, the tapes that would be most likely to have any clues to the perpetrator’s identity would be the most recent ones. But it didn’t seem likely that the statements had been recorded chronologically. For one thing, there was at least one tape that had a label indicating the statement was from the 18th century. For another, there were hardly enough tapes available to cover even part of the statements that had been stored in the Archives over the last 50 years, even assuming that the standard ratio of nonsense ramblings to genuine supernatural encounters was applied. Gertrude had recorded only specific statements, and in an indeterminate order. Why?

Another mystery to add to the pile, Jon supposed.

The best bet was to listen to the most recent timestamp he could find. Gertrude couldn’t have recorded statements _before_ the events took place, so any statements from 2015 or 2014 would be most promising.

Shuffling through the tapes, the most recent label he could find was 0141010. October 2014. Half a year or so before Gertrude died.

Listening to the tape had a similar effect on Jon, leaving him shaken, but he shoved aside the feeling for the sake of considering the information he had to work with.

A direct threat from the stranger, Gertrude had said. Which stranger? Was Gertrude being stalked? Did she not know her assailant at all? Was it a title?

Or was she merely beginning to go senile, unable to identify others?

No, the other tape, the one with the Not-Them, Gertrude also mentioned the stranger. An aspect of the stranger. That had been recorded almost twenty years before her death. Surely she hadn’t been senile for all that time.

It would go a long ways to explaining why the Archives were in the state they had been left in...

But the woman Jon heard on the tapes did not sound like any kind of doddering old fool.

According to Gertrude, this stranger seemed to be associated with Orsinov, and the unknowning, who and whatever that was. It was a name, at least. One that sounded vaguely familiar, like Jon had come across it in one of the statements before. Repeated names didn’t tend to lead to anything good.

Jon wasn’t entirely sure it was this stranger who had been responsible for Gertrude’s death, though. Gertrude said that she had wanted more time to recover, that she could hardly stand. Recover from what? Had she been attacked before her murder? By someone other than the stranger; someone known? Or was it just an unrelated health problem? Maybe Jon could ask around, but given what information he had been able to gather prior to this, Gertrude had been notoriously elusive where the rest of the Institute staff were concerned.

Every scrap of information Jon found just seemed to lead to more questions.

* * *

 

Jon had made the call to the police after his second trip through the trapdoor, after making sure in no uncertain terms that Martin needed to go home, that he could not remain lurking in the tunnels when the police came down there. That Jon would be fine. Jon could only hope that he had listened.

The dispatcher had sounded quite urgent, until Jon mentioned the Magnus Institute. Then there was a significant pause.

“You found the body in the Magnus Institute?”

“In the tunnels below it, yes.”

“I see. I will have to make some calls. Expect someone to arrive… at some point.”

“What, wait, you can’t even give me an estimate--” The call ended on him. Of course.

* * *

 

Two officers arrived at the Institute several hours later. “Mr. Sims?” one asked him.

Jon looked up from where he was slumped over the desk, hand curled around a stone-cold cup of tea. He’d half-thought he had been entirely forgotten. “Yes, that’s me.”

“My name is Officer Basira Hussain, and this is my partner, Dais- Detective Alice Tonner. You said you found a body?”

“I have. I can show you to it.”

“Please do.”

Jon led the officers down the trapdoor and through the winding corridors of the tunnels, eventually reaching the room where Gertrude’s body laid. Jon gestured at the doorway, not particularly wanting to look in the room again.

“Yikes,” Officer Hussain said, upon shining her torch into the room.

“No wonder they called us in,” Detective Tonner muttered. The two officers glanced at each other. Then Officer Hussain looked at Jon.

“I’ll take you back upstairs and get your statement. Daisy will process the scene and make some calls to the coroner.”

“You won’t get any reception down here,” Jon pointed out.

“Right. Then I’ll make some calls to the coroner, and then get your statement. Let’s go.”

Jon led Officer Hussain back to the break room of the Institute, keeping busy by putting the kettle on while she made her call.

“Yeah, it’s the Magnus Institute. And it’s weird. But I still need someone sent down here to retrieve the corpse. You must have someone-- Yeah, okay. Thanks,” she said, and hung up.

“Would you like any tea?” Jon asked, as the kettle finished boiling.

“No thanks. Let’s just get this done. You said you found the body tonight?”

“Yes, I was exploring the tunnels and I stumbled across it.”

“Why were you exploring the tunnels in the middle of the night?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly supposed to be doing it during my work hours. I suppose not now, either. But there was an incident here almost two months ago, with the worms and Jane Prentiss. Did you hear about that? The ECDC got involved, and--”

“Yeah, I heard about it. And saw the worm corpses, down in the tunnels.”

“Yes, she used the tunnels to get into the Institute. And after I returned from my leave,” Jon said, gesturing at his scars. “I found myself rather… curious, about what had been going on down there. So, I went looking.”

“Hmn. And this was the first time you went down there?”

“No, I made a separate excursion last week. There’s a lot of ground to cover. And I got lost down there, during the attack. I probably would have gone down there again sooner, but it took me a while to find the key to the lock.”

“I see. Do you have any idea whose body is down there?”

“Well, I didn’t go into the room, but from what I could make out of the corpse from the doorway, it appears that it was once Gertrude Robinson. The former Head Archivist. She went missing over a year ago, I believe you should have a report of that?”

“Probably. I’ll check our records when we get back. Do you have any idea of who might have done this?”

 _If only._ “I’m afraid not. With our line of work, it could have been anyone or anything.”

“All right. Well, I think that’s all I’m likely to get out of you tonight. You can go, but we may contact you for more information in the future. I’m going to go see if Daisy needs any help.”

“Best of luck, officer,” Jon replied, getting up.

When he returned to the apartment, Jon couldn’t open the door all the way, bumping into something that had been left in his entryway.

The something turned out to be Martin, who scrambled to his feet and yanked the door open the rest of the way. “Jon! You’re all right?”

Jon blinked. “Yes?” he replied.

“You were gone for so long, I thought you might have been arrested or something, and I couldn’t call or text you because I’m not supposed to know anything about it, so I didn’t know what to do, and--”

“Martin. It’s fine. I’m fine. The police force just kept me waiting for anyone to arrive. Apparently the Magnus Institute isn’t one of their top priorities.”

“Oh.”

“Go to bed.”

“...all right.”

* * *

 

The entirety of the Institute staff seemed to have heard about Jon’s discovery by the Monday after his report, and Elias had shown up to give Jon a lecture about trespassing and demand the key to the lock back. That was expected; Jon had already had a copy of the key made for that eventuality.

Did Elias want the key back because he had hidden more secrets in the tunnels? Concerned that Jon had potentially uncovered his crime? Or was he just upset that Jon had stolen from his desk?

Jon would have to keep a close eye on him.

Much of the rest of the staff seemed to be interested in questioning him as well. Jon didn’t want to speak with them, didn’t want to have to wonder which of them might be Gertrude’s murderer, trying to determine how much he knows, trying to get closer to him, testing Jon’s guard.

Locking himself away in his office dissuaded most of the rubberneckers; generally the staff of the Institute tended to avoid the Archives, especially since the Prentiss incident.

This did not, however, exempt him from his assistant’s attentions. Sasha, thankfully, seemed to take the hint, but Tim did not.

“Boss, they’re saying that you found Gertrude’s body in the tunnels. That the police were here,” Tim said, barging into Jon’s office.

“Yes, that’s what happened,” Jon replied.

“And you weren’t going to tell the rest of us?”

And tip off anyone who might be motivated to move against him? Jon would rather that no one knew, but apparently the police didn’t have a sense of subtlety. “I don’t see how it’s relevant to your job, Tim.”

“I feel like knowing that one of the Archival staff got bloody murdered in the creepy tunnels connected to our workplace is pretty goddamn relevant!”

“The police are taking care of it. I don’t know anything more than you do.” Not technically a lie, Jon didn’t know, he only had pieces and questions and suspicions. And even if he did know anything for sure, he couldn’t tell Tim. He didn’t know what secrets Tim might be hiding from him. “There’s nothing more that we can do.”

“Right, sure, so we’ll just stay here like sitting ducks for whatever other monster might be lurking in those tunnels, then? Worked out so well with Prentiss.”

“Gertrude was shot. I find it difficult to believe that’s the result of some kind of paranormal entity. The police are probably looking for someone human.” _Someone like you._

Tim grit his teeth. “Sure. Fine. Let’s just ignore the messed up junk. Deny it away, just like always,” he growled, but he left all the same.

Things settled back into something of a routine for the week or so, as Jon became more convinced than ever that if anyone was going to determine who Gertrude’s murderer was, it would need to be him. The police officers, once they had finally arrived, had seemed competent enough, but hardly thorough, and the delay in the response and the apparent reluctance to expending any resources on the Institute gave Jon no confidence that anything would come from their investigation.

He still couldn’t risk making another trip to the storage locker, though, no matter how unconcerned the police force appeared to be, and so he was going to have to rely on more… direct means of investigating his colleagues.

And then Helen Richardson showed up.

Following her statement and Jon’s subsequent encounter with Michael, Jon emerged from his office with paper towels clamped around his bleeding arm.

Martin’s eyes immediately went to the red-stained paper, and he shot to his feet, scrambling out from behind his desk.

“Don’t!” Jon barked out.

Martin froze.

“Don’t touch me.”

“But I--”

“I don’t need any help from you. If Elias asks for me today, you can tell him I’m at the hospital.”

“Jon, I… Would you let me help you? Not with first aid. But I can call you a taxi, and wait with you while it comes?”

Dialling for a ride to the hospital while not getting blood everywhere would be difficult. “Fine. If you must. Tim, Sasha, I’ll be out for a few hours. If you have any inquiries to make of me, then they’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“All right, Jon,” Sasha replied.

Jon nodded curtly and headed for the stairs. Martin followed after him, pulling out his phone.

After Martin made the call, the both of them waited outside of the Institute. Rosie, bless her, hadn’t made any comments on Jon’s condition.

Martin didn’t have the same sense of tact.

“What happened, Jon?”

“Nothing important. I just had a bit of an accident, is all,” Jon replied.

“Jon.”

“I can be quite clumsy, I’m afraid.”

“Jon.”

“It’s not any of your concern.”

“Jon! You’ve been stabbed! I feel like that’s something pretty concerning.”

“...I’d rather not talk about it.”

“How am I supposed to help you if you won’t tell me anything?”

“I don’t…” Jon trailed off, and sighed. “Do you remember Ms. Richardson?”

“The lady who came in to give a statement? Yes.”

“Do you remember her leaving?”

“I… No. Wait, did she stab you? What did you do, Jon?”

“Nothing! And no. It wasn’t her. It was… It was Michael.”

“Michael?” Martin asked.

“The… entity that Sasha encountered before. The one who told us about the fire extinguishers. It… it took Ms. Richardson. I wasn’t paying close enough attention, I didn’t _see_ , and Ms. Richardson paid for it,” Jon admitted, tightening his grip on the paper towels around his arm. “And Michael didn’t take well to me demanding her return.”

“Oh god,” Martin breathed.

“I don’t know what it wants. I don’t know why it decided to take her then, whether it just wants to taunt me or if this is some greater plan that Ms. Richardson was caught up in. It said--” Jon stopped. The taxi had pulled up to the curb. “This is my ride. I’ll see you later.”

“All right. I’ll keep an eye on the Archives, Jon. Feel better.”

* * *

 

Jon kept accumulating questions and a maddening lack of answers over the next several weeks. He’d gotten confirmation from Jordan Kennedy that Prentiss was well and truly dead, which should have been a relief. It didn’t seem to help with the nightmares he still had, though.

Halloween had passed relatively uneventfully. Something to be said for small miracles, he supposed.

Just as Jon started to feel like it was safe to keep investigating Gertrude’s tapes, Officer Hussain-- Basira-- returned to the Institute to make a statement of her own. She had talked about the lack of support she was working with, and how Jon might have some insight into the case, if they pooled their resources.

Jon suspected that she was doing it to keep him from skipping town, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity of any information the police force might have gathered.

Martin noticed that Jon had been communicating with Basira more frequently. He didn’t seem to take it well. “I thought Tim was supposed to be the one who had contacts in the police force,” he muttered over one breakfast.

“He still does, as far as I know. But Basira- that is, Officer Hussain, is somewhat on her own in her investigations. I doubt that Tim’s contacts would have any insight into the details of the case.” Not to mention that Jon couldn’t trust Tim, couldn’t know that he wouldn’t be feeding Jon false information. "You're the one who insisted on involving the police in the first place."

Martin sighed and went back to poking at his food.

Detective Tonner eventually returned to make her statement as well, but nothing Jon had gathered, not from the constables, not from his own investigations, not from the statements, seemed to help Jon reach any kind of conclusion.

The relative quiet of everything didn’t calm Jon’s nerves. He knew there was danger out there, some threat lurking, but he couldn’t find it.

Something was wrong, but he didn’t know _what_.

* * *

 

“If the details in this statement are to be belie--”

The door to the office swung abruptly open. “Excuse me, do you have a moment?”

Jon jerked. “Ms. King. How- how did you, uh, how did you get in here?”

“The new girl let me in. Are you all right?” Melanie asked.

“Hm? Sorry?”

“You look like hell.”

“It’s been a hard few few months,” Jon replied, and then something that Melanie had just said registered. “The new girl? What new girl?”

“Your new assistant? She sits at the middle desk?”

Jon blinked. “You mean Sasha?”

“You got another Sasha? What, are you collecting them?” Melanie asked.

“What? No, there’s only the one-- Oh. Oh, god,” Jon breathed, dread suddenly washing over him. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Melanie scowled. “Look, are you having a laugh? Because I’m really not in the mood for stupid pranks--”

“No. No, I… You’re sure? That you met a different Sasha?” Jon asked.

“I mean, she didn’t tell me her name, but she doesn’t look anything like the Sasha I met before. What does it matter?”

“It…” It was right outside of his office, it had just let Melanie in. Jon turned his attention back to Melanie. “Why are you here? You should get out of here, now.”

“What? No. I’m not just leaving like that. I- I need your help.”

“You need my help,” Jon repeated flatly. “I thought this place was, how did you put it, a waste of your time?”

“Look, don’t be an asshole about it. I just need access to your library,” Melanie replied.

“Go talk to Diana. She runs the place,” Jon said, starting to lose patience.

“Yes, I don’t exactly have the academic credentials you guys demand, so apparently I need someone to vouch for me. And you’re basically the closest thing I have to a friend here.”

Jon found that hard to believe, but he had significantly more pressing things to worry about. “Right, fine, I’ll talk to the library staff. Get you access. So go home now. Come… come back in a few days. Things should be sorted out then.”

“What, just like that?”

“If you want to have another shouting match, Ms. King, then you’ll have to find someone else. I have something I need to do, and you need to leave. Now. Come back in a few days.”

“Fine,” Melanie grumbled, and left.

Jon needed to find Adelard Dekker’s statement.

* * *

 

“I don't know if destroying this is going to kill that thing, but I am damn sure it's going to hurt,” Jon snarled into the recorder. Then he lifted the axe.

“Jon, no!”

The words held no special sway; Jon's muscles did not turn against him to follow some inexorable command.

But Jon still paused, axe hefted and at the ready. “What is it, Martin?” he asked.

“You really, really shouldn't break that table. Can you put the axe down, Jon? Please?”

He shouldn't have left Lawrence Moore’s tape out on his desk when he'd gone to buy the axe. Sloppy. “Why would you want to protect this?”

“Well, just look at it. Why do you think?” Martin asked.

Jon glanced down at the table's surface. It was like looking at a magic eye puzzle; one instant all he saw was the compelling, hypnotic patterns, the next instant, the pattern had resolved itself into the image of a complex, intricately woven web. Jon tore his eyes away from the sight, feeling his stomach sink. It was confirmation of a suspicion that Jon had been trying desperately to ignore ever since reading Lawrence Moore describe the changeling-thing as being covered in spiderwebs.

“It's… it's like you. It… You've been working with the thing that killed Sasha all along?” Jon asked, and his voice somehow came out sounding more pained than angry.

“No. No, of course not, Jon. That thing, the… not-Sasha, it isn't like me. It's something else. The table is separate from it; I'm pretty sure that it's actually trapping the thing.”

Jon held still for another heartbeat of time, then he slowly lowered the axe. “Well, it clearly isn't doing a very good job of that.”

Martin breathed out a sigh. “I don't think we want to know what that thing is capable of when it isn't trapped,” he said, slowly making his way across the room to Jon.

“I… I wanted to make it pay,” Jon said, feeling lost.

“I know. But that isn't the way to--”

“Jon? What are you doing in Artefact Storage, Jon?” Sasha’s- no, not Sasha’s voice drifted from the corridor.

“Damn,” Jon muttered, gripping the axe tighter.

The thing that had pretended to be Sasha peered in through the door. “Oh, and Martin too? Don't you know that it's dangerous in here?” She smiled and stepped inside, letting the door snick shut behind her.

“It won't be dangerous for long.” Martin slammed his hands down on the table, and suddenly not-Sasha was covered in dozens of yards of web, stretching all the way back to the table. The webs hadn't emerged from the table; it was like they had always been there and were only just now visible.

Her eyes went wide. “What?! How did--”

“I thought so. You didn't pay any attention to me, did you? I wasn't interesting enough, I bet. No one ever checks the quiet corners,” Martin said, and made a beckoning motion. The webs began retracting, pulling the not-Sasha thing towards the table, towards Martin. “That was a mistake.”

“Let me _go_!” The last word didn't sound human any longer, as the thing in the web started to elongate and warp, thrashing against the bonds. The web held it tightly, even as it attained dimensions that made Jon's head hurt just to see it.

Martin seemed unfazed, though part of Jon noticed that his hand trembled where it was laid on the table. “No. You killed Sasha. You would have killed Jon, too, if you had the chance,” Martin said, as the webs continued dragging the writhing, shrieking thing towards the table.  

“ _You should worry more about yourself,_ ” it snarled, lashing out with an impossibly thin limb. The strike swerved around Martin as the webs yanked on the appendage, pinning it to the table.

Martin clenched his hands. The trembling was gone now. “You're bound and caged, and you're still too dangerous. And I can't weave a tighter web for you than this one. But webs... They aren't just for trapping things, you know? They're supposed to be used for holding the prey still for just a while, until the spider finally finishes it off. And this web? Well, now it has a spider.”

The creature in the webs suddenly went very still. Then it started pleading in Sasha’s voice. No, in the voice that Jon remembered as Sasha’s, not the one that had been recorded on the tapes he had found in her desk. “No, no, Martin, please, please don't do this--”

Martin leaned over the table, almost close enough to touch the thing, and said “ _Die_.”

The word dropped like a stone into still waters, ripples spreading out in all directions. For a moment, all the air left Jon's lungs. Something wrenched at him, at a part of himself he had not been aware of until this moment. It was like his feet were being pulled out from under him, but those feet were planted somewhere else, somewhere they had remained since he had been born, and just now they were starting to slip. Darkness began to devour the edges of Jon's vision.

Suddenly, the irresistible drag of the threads broke, severed by a force that held him in place, pressed down on him from all directions. It was not like being rescued, not like being wrapped in something soft and comforting. It was possessive and invasive. Jon felt cold and terrified and helpless, dragged open and pinned under the gaze of something all at once uncaring and entirely malevolent. His vision abruptly cleared, but he still had no air in his lungs to scream.

Jon watched as the thing in the webs just… crumpled. No spasms, no shrieks, just obedience to the order.

And then the air rushed back in a gasp, and Jon staggered, shaking uncontrollably. The axe clattered to the ground, dropped from nerveless fingers.

Martin stood at the table for one long moment, staring down at it. He absentmindedly traced a hand along one of the lines of the pattern, following it until he reached the square gap in the center of the table. Then he seemed to jerk back to himself, straightening up and looking around.

He spotted Jon and abandoned the table, hurrying over to him. “Jon? Are you all right?”

“I… ah… No,” Jon gasped, clutching himself.

“I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that when you were around.” Martin stood anxiously near Jon, his hands drifting out toward him and then being withdrawn away before making contact. “I… is there anything I can do? Do you need--”

Jon grabbed one of the fluttering hands and held it tightly in both of his own, focusing on just breathing and the feeling of someone else near him.

He was here. He was here, this was real, he was alive. He was still alive. He was here. The shaking slowly subsided. He breathed out and finally let Martin's hand go. ”Okay. Okay, I think I'll… I think I'll be all right.” He glanced down at the bizarre corpse on the ground, wreathed in cobwebs like a funeral shroud. “...we should probably burn that thing.”

A strain of rippling, distorted laughter echoed around them, followed by a sigh. “Oh, that was so boring… Little Weaver, why did you have to help the Archivist? I so dearly did want to see what would happen if he broke the table...”

“Michael,” Jon hissed under his breath like a curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo, I couldn't find a good place to chop this chapter up, so I basically did a speedrun of the majority of the second season. These are the statements/events that were referenced in the chapter, in order of appearance.
> 
> MAG 87- The Uncanny Valley (Gertrude's tape)  
> MAG 47- The New Door (Helen's statement and Michael's visit)  
> MAG 55- Pest Control (Jordan Kennedy's statement)  
> MAG 43- Section 31 (Basira's statement, delayed due to the delayed involvement of the police)  
> MAG 61- Hard Shoulder (Daisy's statement)  
> MAG 63- End of the Tunnel (Melanie's first visit to the Archives, post-Season 1)  
> MAG 78- Distant Cousin (Lawrence Moore's statement, regarding Not-Them and the table)


	27. Chapter 27

“You really aren’t very much fun, Weaver,” Michael continued, stepping out from behind a door that hadn’t been there before.

Martin’s eyes darted over to the table, and he started sidling back towards it. This movement did not go unnoticed by Michael.

“Do you think that you can trap me with _that_?” Michael asked, sounding amused.

Martin set his jaw and darted forward. He barely made it one step before Michael reached out his hand and, in complete disregard of the five yards of space still separating them, stabbed Martin clean through the shoulder with one knife-sharp finger. Martin stopped with an awful little gasping sound, pinned in place.

“No, I don’t think so.” Michael withdrew the finger from Martin’s shoulder with a little jerk, and Martin crumpled.

“Martin!” Jon cried, rushing to Martin’s side and dropping down to his knees to check how badly he had been injured.

“No, don't--” Martin started to say, but it was too late. Jon saw.

Instead of blood, a thin stream of tiny, skittering spiders was trickling from the wound. Jon recoiled, and Martin clapped his hand over the spot, hunching into a tight ball as though that would let him hide from Jon.

“If I cut you somewhere that can't be covered by clothing, then you won't be able to hide what you are anymore, little Weaver…” Michael crooned, and Martin curled up tighter.

Jon whirled around, lurching to his feet and putting himself between Martin and the thing that called itself Michael. “ Stop it. Leave him alone.”

“An Archivist that cares?” That echoing, shivering laughter rang through the room again. “Or do you just think that he's more useful to you as he currently is?”

“Of course I--” Jon stopped himself. He didn't know what answer might make Michael decide to hurt them. “It doesn't matter. You didn't come here for him, did you? Why are you here? What do you want?”

“Well, I wanted to see what sort of things they would do to you,” Michael replied, inclining its head slightly towards the immobile corpse of the thing that had claimed to be Sasha. It sighed, a sound that reverberated through the air and Jon's bones. “ But I suppose that isn't really an option, now… I suppose I could see what _I_ could do to you, instead.”

“Won't-- won't that be boring, though? I mean, you already know what kinds of things you could do to me.”

“Hmm. You may be right. I do think I could get creative, but…” Michael's eyes drifted back down to Martin. “Well, this might be interesting to watch, too. You might just live to regret welcoming a spiderling into your domain, Archivist. He doesn't belong here, no matter what he might have made you believe. And none of us can fight our natures…”

Jon swallowed. “...well, it's not as though I haven't already made plenty of decisions I've regretted. What's one more?”

Michael's smile widened, impossibly. “Well, one of those may be the death of you. Or maybe worse. I do look forward to watching.”

And then it was gone.

Jon let a shuddering breath, then turned back to Martin. He was still huddled on the ground, unmoving. “I think Michael’s gone, now. Are you-- Is there anything I can do?”

Martin shook his head. “No, no, I- I can’t really go to the hospital or anything, like this. It… I’m sorry you had to, to see that. You don’t… You can just go. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t _seem_ fine,” Jon said.

“Well, I- I meant fine for, you know, being a spider monster. Not, not fine as in normal. Sorry,” Martin mumbled.

“That’s not what I-- Look, I don’t know what you… I don't know how this works. I don't know if you've lost a dangerous amount of… spiders… or something. I don't want you to-- Are you sure there isn't anything I can do?"

"No, it's… I can feel them working. I'll be all right."

Jon suppressed a shudder. "Right, then." He glanced around at the assorted objects around them, opted against leaning on anything, and settled down cross-legged on the floor near Martin.

For the first time since he'd been stabbed, Martin glanced at Jon, uncurling very slightly. "You don't… you don't need to stay here."

"We still need to deal with that thing," Jon replied, gesturing in the direction of the corpse without looking that way. "And if it's all the same, I'd rather not be handling it on my own."

"Oh. Okay." Silence settled over then for several moments, before Martin spoke up again. "What… what are we going to tell Tim?"

"Hmm? About what?"

"I mean, Sasha… she, she isn't going to come back, and he's going to notice."

The reminder of Sasha's loss took Jon like a punch to the stomach. Everything had been so frantic in the last while that Jon had almost forgotten it, but suddenly the grief was rising up to choke him again.

He'd failed her, and he didn't even notice it. Didn't even realize that she'd been murdered. He'd worked with her killer for months. He couldn't even remember what she looked like.

"I… you don't think that, maybe she… I mean, you… came back. Do you think she might, too?" Jon asked.

"Jon, I… I don't think so. From what Dekker said about the thing, from what I felt through the web, that thing, it's… I don't think there's enough left of her to come back. At least not the way I did. I don't… I'm sorry."

The ember of hope in Jon's chest flickered and died. He swallowed thickly, wrapping his arms around himself. "I'm sorry, too," he said softly.

There was another long stretch of silence before Jon took a shuddering breath and straightened his spine. Martin died. Sasha died. He couldn't afford to fail Tim, too. "I… I think we should tell Tim. What happened," he said.

"You-- what?"

"We should tell him the truth. He deserves to know. And Sasha--" Jon's breath hitched. He swallowed and pressed on. "Sasha deserves better than to become just one more mystery of this place."

"... Alright."

"If we want him to believe us, though…" Jon almost looked back at the corpse. Almost. "Where is Tim? I told you both to go home, did he at least listen to me?"

"Oh. No, he didn't believe a word you said. Thought you were up to something, wanted to follow you. I, uh, convinced him to let it go, though," Martin replied.

Jon felt mildly offended. "What, so he'll listen to you--" Martin looked away from Jon, and a sudden suspicion blared through Jon's head. "Martin. You didn't..."

Martin didn't meet Jon's eyes. "Look, you were acting really weird, okay? I needed to make sure you weren't going charging into anything really dangerous, and, and I needed Tim out of the way. I didn't make him do anything bad! I just sent him home. I made sure he was out of danger."

"Martin…" Jon said reproachfully.

"I'm… I'm not sorry. The Not-Sasha, it would have killed you. If I had wasted any time… I don't regret what I did. I'd do it again, if I had to," Martin said, and this time he did look Jon in the eye.

Jon met his gaze and remembered how cold Martin's voice had been when he had the creature in his web. What little hesitation he had shown before killing it. He swallowed. "All right. Then... I'll just hope you won't have to," he replied. "And I suppose I'll call Tim to ask him to come back in."

Martin nodded, and turned his attention back to his wounded shoulder. It seemed as though it had improved, because Martin straightened up to a sitting position, carefully tugging his shirt so as to offset the hole in the fabric and the new hole in his flesh.

Jon dialed Tim, and the call was picked up after two rings. "Hey, boss. First off, if you've got a body on your hands, I am not helping you hide it," Tim grumbled into the phone.

Jon bit back a inappropriate and hysterical bubble of laughter at that. "No, that's not why I'm calling. Can you come back to the Institute? Tonight? There's something I need to discuss with you."

"You were real insistent about me going home before, and now you want me back?"

"There have been… developments."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever they are, I don't really care. You've been skulking around in the shadows for months, and I can't imagine anything you're willing to share now is good. I'm staying in tonight, boss. You can talk to me in the morning, when my shift starts."

"Tim, this is important--"

Martin plucked the phone out of Jon's hand, and his voice picked up the resonance that shivered through Jon's bones. " _Please come back here, Tim._ "

"Sure thing. I'll be there shortly," Jon heard Tim say from the other end, and the call terminated.

Jon looked at Martin, who handed the phone back sheepishly. "Sorry, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have come back tonight any other way. I, I didn't want him turning right around and coming back to the Institute once he got home."

Jon sighed. "Of course you didn't. I'll get the tapes. I think we should probably lead with those, before we try to claim that that thing made us think it was Sasha," he said, inclining his head towards the corpse.

"Yeah, good idea."

* * *

 

Tim sat there for a moment, after the tape finished playing. "This… this is some kind of a joke, right? A prank? ...you've got a crap sense of humour, boss."

Jon shook his head. "It isn't a joke. I wish it was."

"So, what, you're saying that Sasha got replaced with some kind of imposter? I mean, I know you've been pretty paranoid lately Jon, but this is a bit of a stretch, even for you." Tim looked at Martin. "And I'd expect better than you playing into his delusions, Martin."

"It's not a delusion, Tim. It's--" Martin started to say.

"No, listen to yourselves. You're saying that a doppelganger replaced our coworker, and absolutely no one could tell the difference? Why are you even telling me this? Are you planning on jumping Sasha when she comes in tomorrow, or something?"

"No. That won't be necessary. Not anymore," Jon replied.

Tim went very still. "What… what did you do, Jon?"

Jon stood up. "Come with me. I think you should see something."

"... All right. But only if you- and Martin, too- go first," Tim said, pulling out his phone. "And I'm putting the number for the police in my phone, so don't pull anything funny."

Jon shrugged. "Very well. Come on, Martin."

They proceeded back to Artefact Storage, where the dead thing still lay.

Tim very nearly dropped his phone at the sight of it. “Wh- what the hell is that?!”

“It’s what we were just telling you about. It’s the thing that- that killed Sasha,” Jon said.

“It… No. No, that’s not… Sasha can’t be dead. She…” Tim trailed off, still staring at the corpse.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said.

“I… God, this place is even worse than I thought it was,” Tim said, running a shaking hand over his face. “What… what happened?”

“I’m pretty sure it happened during Prentiss’ att--”

“No. Not that. I don’t, I don’t want to know how long that _thing_ was tricking us into believing it was Sasha. What happened there? Why is it dead now?”

Jon and Martin glanced at each other. Then Martin took a deep breath. “I killed it,” he admitted.

“You-- Yeah, all right, pull the other one. What did you do, make it too many cups of tea?” Tim asked, his voice harshly sardonic.

“No. I- It’s a long story. But I, ah, the webs and things? That… that was me.”

“So, what, you’ve become some kind of wizard when we weren’t looking? Finally got your damn Hogwarts letter?”

“I wish. No, I got… well, I got this,” Martin said, and he tugged the collar of his shirt aside to reveal the partially cobweb-patched hole in his shoulder, still swarming with tiny arachnids.

“Jesus Christ!” Tim yelped, scrambling backwards.

Martin quickly pulled his shirt back over the wound. “Don’t- don’t worry, it’s not contagious or anything.”

“You sure about that? Because I didn’t think it was ‘buy one monster coworker, get another one free’ day,” Tim retorted, continuing his retreat toward the exit of Artefact Storage.

“Tim, I’m not- I’m not like that. I don’t--”

“Stay the hell away from me. I don’t buy your friendly monster routine.” Tim glanced at Jon. “And you, you’re just fine with all of this?”

“He’s still Martin, Tim. And he saved my life. I… I trust him,” Jon replied.

“And it doesn’t strike you as odd that you, the most paranoid bastard on the planet, trust that thing? You’ve already got one monster that messed with your head, messed with all our heads, but this one is different, somehow? You want to be buddies with it?”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Jon said tersely.

Tim shook his head. “If you want to have a tea party with a monster, then be my guest. I’m not staying here for it, though,” he said, and disappeared through the door.

“...well,” Martin said with a sigh. “That could have gone better.”

“He wouldn’t listen to reason,” Jon muttered.

“I mean, _you_ were sure that I was going to kill you and you locked yourself in your bedroom for thirty-six hours to try to get away from me,” Martin pointed out.

“Well, yes, okay, but to be fair you’d just trapped me in my apartment at the time. And covered me in cobwebs. All you did today was--”

“Prove that I’m both willing and able to commit murder?” Martin asked.

“What-- no. You haven’t murdered anyone. That- that thing wasn’t a person.”

“No. No, I suppose it wasn’t,” Martin murmured, rubbing at his shoulder. He looked over at the corpse. “Do you think we can burn it down in the tunnels without setting off the Institute’s fire system?”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, the boys are dealing with some grief in the first half of this chapter. Fair warning, in case reading this kind of thing might not be great for your wellbeing at the moment.

Martin somehow managed to detach the webs from the table, and wrapped the end of it in some scrap paper to form a kind of handle. After that, the two of them dragged the corpse into the tunnels.

They eventually found themselves in a little side room, one that had soot marks on the walls and a little pile of ashes on the floor. Jon managed to pick out a charred corner of a page, one with only a few Latin words still legible. "Hmmn. Seems as though this place has been used for disposal before. I wonder what this used to be…"

"Knowing our luck, probably more of those spooky books. I don't think you should be touching it, Jon."

Jon sighed and let the corner piece flutter to the floor. "I suppose it would be too much to hope for, that there wouldn't be any more Leitners down here."

They pulled the corpse to the centre of the room. Martin paused, and patted down his pockets. "Oh… um, do you have a light?"

"I… yes, I do." Jon fished a lighter from his pocket. He flicked it on and let the flame lick at the tangled threads. The webs caught immediately, and Jon stepped back, idly slipping the lighter back into his pocket.

He watched as the fire spread over the thing, further warping the monstrosity, eating away at it.

It felt wrong, to let the moment pass without saying anything. Jon took a shaky breath. "Sasha, I… I'm sorry. You deserved better," he said. It occurred to him that this was probably the only eulogy that Sasha was likely to get, at least for a long while. Jon realized with a pang of guilt that he didn't know enough about Sasha to know even who to contact, even if he could expect any of Sasha's family to believe him. Sasha would just vanish from their lives, and no answers he could give would be satisfactory. And even if a funeral was eventually arranged, the photos displayed wouldn't be of Sasha. Jon swallowed around a lump in his throat. "I wish I could remember you."

"I… I can't remember what you look like, or what you sound like, but I still remember some things, I think. I remember what you did," Martin said, suddenly reminding Jon of his presence. "I remember how quickly you picked up the new filling system, and how pleased you were, when you could hunt down obscure details from the statements. I remember arguing with you over symbolism in Frost’s works, and the jokes that you and Tim used to sling at each other." Martin let out a watery little chuckle. "I still have that stupid little plastic spider ring you gave me, the Halloween before last. It's in my desk. You, you were always so unflappable and brave. You saved Tim's life. I don’t… I don’t think any of that was fake. You were here, and you made a difference. I… I wish things could have been different. We'll miss you."

Jon's eyes stung, and not just from the smoke. He and Martin stood there in silence for a long while, watching the thing burn to a blackened husk.

Once there was little left but a mound of smoldering embers, Jon tore his gaze away. "Let's go home."

Martin followed him wordlessly.

* * *

When they arrived back at the apartment, Martin disappeared into the lavatory, presumably to change into a unstabbed shirt. Jon lingered in the sitting room, staring blankly out the window.

What was he doing? Why was he still intent on uncovering more of this mystery, even now, when it only seemed to be more and more dangerous to everyone around him? His bleak thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door creaking open.

"Jon, can I… can I ask for another hug?" Martin asked, stepping back into the sitting room. “I don’t have any spiders on me any more, I promise.”

Jon glanced over at Martin, shrugged, and opened his arms.

Martin approached slowly, then paused and bit his lip. "I, ah… Here," he said, and drew Jon over to the sofa. He tugged Jon down so they were sitting side-by-side before he angled his torso toward Jon and wrapped both arms around him. “Is this okay?”

It was awkward, half-turned into each other with their knees knocking together. But it did mean that Jon didn’t need to worry about being knocked off balance, and his chin could rest on Martin’s (uninjured) shoulder instead of his face being mashed into Martin’s collarbone, so that was something. “...yeah,” he muttered, slipping his own arms around Martin.

Apparently in response, Martin held him more closely, enveloping Jon in a soft and wooly embrace.

It made something inside Jon break, and suddenly the pain and loss came washing over him in a torrent. His breath caught in his chest, his shoulders heaved, and he muffled a sob against Martin’s shoulder. There wasn’t anything else he could have done, he didn’t have the time to extricate himself from the hug before the grief overtook him.

Martin, for his part, didn’t say anything. He just held Jon as the tears came. Jon noticed, during a brief lull in the waves of grief, that his shoulders were shaking as well. 

Eventually, Jon managed to get enough of a handle on himself to draw in a shuddering breath and pull away. He winced at the damp patch he’d left on Martin’s jumper. “Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice thick.

"It's okay. Water won’t make me melt or anything," Martin replied, letting go of Jon to scrub the back of his hand over his own cheeks. “I kind of repaid the favour, anyway. Sorry.”

Jon suddenly became aware of the soggy fabric over his own shoulder. “Ah. Well, it will dry eventually.”

“Are… are you okay?”

“No.”

“Ah. Right. Kind of a stupid question, isn’t it?”

“I’m…” Jon felt emptied out, scoured clean inside. The pain wasn’t gone, but the weight of it was just a little less suffocating. “I am better, I think. A bit.”

“Well, that’s not nothing. ...I shouldn’t keep you up any longer, we probably should go into work tomorrow,” Martin said, drawing back from him entirely.

Jon’s apartment felt cold. He shivered a bit and got off of the sofa. “Right. Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight, Jon.”

* * *

Sasha's desk was empty when they returned to the Archives, which was simultaneously a painful reminder and a relief. Jon was half-certain that he would come down the stairs and Not-Sasha would have been sat there, smiling at him. Instead, there was just an absence, a blank space to match the gaps in Jon's memory.

Tim's desk was also empty.

Apparently, he was out sick, according to a one-line email that Jon had received from him.

Jon didn't like the sound of that.

He got up from his desk and went out into the main area of the Archives. Martin looked up from his desk.

"I got an email claiming that Tim was sick."

"Oh. Yeah. I figured that would happen. Looks like we're the only ones holding down the fort, then," Martin replied with a little shrug.

"That's all you have to say?"

"I mean, I wasn't exactly expecting him to show up like nothing happened," Martin replied.

“I don't like it. He's… I don't know what he's doing. What's happening to him. We should go to his house and check on him.”

Martin stared at him. “We should absolutely  _ not _ go to his house, Jon.”

“I got messages explaining your absence as you being sick as well, Martin. Before,” Jon pointed out.

“That… that happened to me because I encountered a monster, one that followed me to my home and murdered me. How do you think that Tim is going to react to  _ me _ showing up at his home?”

“It’s not the same--” Jon protested.

“For all he knows, it is. You can't just expect everyone to act the same way you would at the moment, Jon. And  _ you _ should know better than anyone that you can't force trust."

"But he..." Jon sighed. "Fine. What do you propose, then?"

"Honestly? I think we should give him some space. He's got to have some time to come to terms with everything."

"I don't-- If the last year has taught me anything, it's that isolation is dangerous. Gertrude was alone down here, and she was murdered. You were alone in your flat, and you were murdered. Sasha got separated from us during the attack, and she was murdered. If Tim…"

"I know. But Tim doesn't want us around. And being forced to be around people you despise and fear isn't any better than isolation. We just have to hope that he'll be all right."

Jon let out a long, disgruntled breath. "I'm just going to call him, then."

Martin blinked. "Wait, you didn't even  _ try _ that before you jumped to the conclusion that we should turn up on his doorstep? I thought he just hadn't picked up."

"I'd rather be able to see him. But this will have to do, I suppose," Jon grumbled, fishing out his phone and wandering back into his office.

Somewhat to his surprise, his call did not go to voicemail. "Hello?" he asked, into the waiting quiet of the other end of the line.

“Hey, boss. What’s up, are you going to try to gaslight me about what happened last night?” Tim asked, not sounding ill at all.

"No. I'm just… concerned about you."

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'm fine. Heading to the airport right now, actually."

"You… what?"

"Gonna see if I can get far enough away to get clear of all of this. Consider this my resig-- I qu--" Tim let out a huff of frustration. "Well, seems I still can't quit. But if I can help it, I'm not coming back. And honestly, you should be doing the same thing."

"I... can’t."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. It's got you. I think it's got me, too. But I'm going to at least  _ try _ ."

"Well, good luck with that. ...stay safe, Tim," Jon said.

All the response he got was a bitter laugh, and the call ended.

Jon sighed, and turned his attention to working out how to manage the Archives with just one assistant.

* * *

Jon remembered that he had promised Melanie access to the Library on midway through the third day. Which probably meant he was at most hours away from having her come storming back in to have another shouting match.

Jon was not feeling up to that, nor up to explaining why he had been in such a rush after Melanie had spoken with him. 

He headed out of the Archives at a fair clip, but apparently he wasn’t fast enough.

"Look, I spoke with your Head Archivist, and he said he'd vouch for me,” Melanie’s voice filtered out into the corridor as Jon approached the Library.

"I don't know what to tell you. I haven't heard anything from the--”

“Ah, Diana,” Jon said, lurching through the doorway. “This slipped my mind. Would you mind allowing Ms. King access to the Library? She’s…” It occurred to Jon that he had no idea what Melanie wanted in the Library or what she was here for. “She’s involved with the same subject of study as we are, and she needs additional resources.”

Diana sighed. “If you say so,” she said, before turning her attention to Melanie. “I’ll need you to fill out some paperwork, then. You should also be aware that removing books from the Library premises is not permitted for non-Institute staff.”

“Right,” Melanie replied, though her gaze was on Jon. He could only imagine what sort of state he looked to be in by this point.

Jon could only shrug and slip back out of the Library.

* * *

Elias showed up in the Archives a week after the confrontation with Not-Sasha. “I can’t help but notice that it’s rather quiet around here, Jon.”

“Yes, Tim’s gone on… vacation, I believe,” Jon replied.

“Is he? The last email I got from him suggested that he was ill,” Elias remarked.

“Yes, well, after what happened with Martin, I tend to follow up on news like that. He told me he was taking a flight somewhere.”

“Hmn. Well, I wish he would have informed me. There’s different expense report aspects to sick leave and vacation leave. Well, I’m certain he will be back before too long, once the wanderlust is satiated a bit. Aside from that, I haven’t heard anything at all from Sasha, but Rosie tells me she hasn’t seen her in days.”

Jon swallowed. Tim deserved to know what had happened with Sasha, but Jon had no interest in getting Elias any further involved in this. The Archives seemed to be… separate, somehow, from the Institute, and Jon couldn’t forget how blasé he had been regarding Martin’s potential death. Even assuming Elias believed Jon, there didn’t seem to be any possible benefit to it. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard from her either. She’s not answering any calls. I’m not sure where she’s gone to. I’m… concerned, but I’m not sure what else there is to be done.”

“I see. Well, if we still can’t get a hold of her soon, I’ll look into making a missing person’s report. And about finding a replacement. I’m certain you can’t be happy, relying only on Martin,” Elias remarked.

“I… It’s really no trouble, I’m sure we can operate well enough until Tim and… and Sasha, hopefully, come back,” Jon replied.

“I don’t want you to be burned out by taking on more than you can handle, Jon.”

“It’s fine.”

“Hmn,” Elias said, and looked unconvinced. “Well, I’ll see what kind of channels I have for contacting Sasha’s family. They may know where she’s gone.”

Jon didn’t reply except to nod, and Elias left.


	29. Chapter 29

Martin approached him in the apartment that evening, while Jon was shuffling through a few files he’d brought home in hopes of remembering where he’d heard the name Orsinov before. Being severely limited in the assistants he had available was hampering his investigations.

"Jon, I, I know I said that I would be able to move out in winter, and it's already mid-December now and this is a really big ask, but would it be all right if I stayed here for one more month? Until February?" Martin asked.

Jon blinked. He'd forgotten that Martin was going to leave at all. "Yes?" he replied.

Martin winced, not meeting Jon’s eyes. "I'm… I’m sorry about this, it's just that I can't go back to my flat and clean it or get any of my furniture and the landlord is probably going to keep my deposit because of it so I won't have enough for a new place in January and--"

"It's fine, Martin. I'm certainly not going to turn you out onto the streets in January," Jon said. "But if you can’t go back, do you want me to go pick up any of your belongings? I could fetch some smaller items, at least. As for the furniture, I could see about getting moving crew to be hired--"

Martin’s head snapped up. "No! No, you can't, you can't go back there. Please don't go back there."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "I know that it’s not likely to be in the best of conditions, but I don’t think that means you need to just abandon everything. We’ve been roommates for months, I rather think any judgements I could have made regarding your cleanliness have already been passed.”

“It’s not-- I… I know it doesn’t make sense, I know it’s probably perfectly safe, but you can’t go there. I don’t- I can’t. I can’t go with you, and if you go alone you might be hurt or killed and what if some of the worms are still living there and they get you and I won’t be able to help you because I was a coward and I can’t go to my own flat and--”

“Martin, remember to breathe,” Jon interrupted. “And, fine, I won’t go to your flat. All right?”

Martin let the run-on sentence finally die and drew in a shaky breath. “Sorry.”

“It’s hardly an imposition. I’ve spent my entire life not going to your flat, and I imagine it will be quite easy to spend the rest of it the same way,” Jon replied.

“I didn’t want to, to put my problems on you. You’ve got enough to deal with,” Martin mumbled.

“And you don’t?”

“I’m handling it.”

Jon sighed. “If you say so. In any case, you can make use of the sofa for as long as you need.”

“Okay. Thanks. Really.”

* * *

Basira arrived at the Archives a few days later. Jon noticed that Martin had looked up from his desk while Jon shut the door to his office. “I’m a bit surprised to see you again. From what Officer Tonner said when she came to visit, she didn’t see the point of continuing to collaborate with me. I think she was mostly intending to intimidate me.” Jon expected that she also came to give a statement of her own, since she seemed to volunteer it readily enough. Though given the threats she’d issued afterward, Jon wasn’t about to discuss that part with Basira.

“Yes, well, Daisy doesn’t know that I’m here. She’s got enough on her plate as is, and the Institute seems to make her jumpy. And I think you’re the best one to ask about this,” Basira said. 

“Has something happened?”

“No. Well, not really. Our tech department finally managed to get the security footage from this place in some semblance of working order, I think Daisy probably told you that already. I’ve been looking through it more carefully, and I noticed something… troubling.”

“Troubling how?” Jon asked.

"Well, we don't have any recordings of the trap door, or much of the basement at all; it's too close to the Archives and apparently you've got some kind of interference that happens down here."

Jon nodded. "Yes, a similar thing happens to some audio recordings that I try to make.”

“And that doesn’t exactly make my job any easier,” Basira replied. “But anyway, there is one camera that faces down the stairs, and there’s been something… weird, showing up on it.”

“Weird,” Jon repeated.

“Yeah. Here, I’ve got the footage on this laptop, I’ll show you,” she said, pulling the computer out of her messenger bag. Basira pulled up one video file and set it running. The image of the stairwell appeared, and might as well have been a stationary picture for all the activity seen on it. At least until Basira skipped ahead to a timestep of 2:36 am.

At that point, the footage began to deteriorate, the resolution dropping sharply and static flickering between the frames. There was a brief blur of motion passing by the bottom of the stairs. A human-looking figure of some kind, with almost no distinguishable features. They were visible for only a moment, and then they were out of sight of the camera. Regular footage resumed shortly afterward.

Jon blinked. “What… what was that?”

Basira shrugged. “No idea, I was hoping you could tell me. They walk back in the other direction about twenty minutes later, and the same thing happens to the footage then, too. I’ve found more than a half-dozen instances of this happening since Gertrude’s disappearance. Always in the middle of the night, and there’s no evidence of anyone leaving or entering the building to correspond with their movements.”

“Which means…”

“Either that person is coming and going through the tunnels, or they’re just always down here in the basement somewhere,” Basira finished the thought.

Jon shivered. Was it the Not-Them, causing the distortion on the footage? “Did… did it happen before the Prentiss incident? Before the Institute was broken into via the tunnels?”

“Yeah, there’s at least three times where they showed up before then, in late 2015 and early 2016. There’s about a four month gap in the appearances, which probably has something to do with that assistant of yours apparently deciding to live in the Archives. Did you know about that?” Basira asked.

It was something else, then, aside from the Not-Them. “Yes.”

“And that he tended to wander around without trousers after hours?”

Jon winced. “Yes, I’m aware of that as well.”

“Okay, I’m not getting into that. Anyway, I can’t find any instances of this person showing up on camera before Gertrude’s disappearance, and they’re keeping on showing up, so it seems like whatever’s happening, it’s related to the issues you’ve been having here. You don’t have any further insight about who it could be, do you?”

“I… I’m afraid not. But if you could send me a copy of the footage, I could see about looking into it further,” Jon offered.

Basira sighed. “Well, that’s about what I expected.” She drew out a flash drive and set it on Jon’s desk before shutting the laptop and packing it away. “The footage is on there. Let me know if you find out anything more.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Right. And… maybe don’t stay in the Archives at night.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Jon replied.

* * *

Jon spent the rest of the day scouring the basement of the Institute for any sign of something hiding out within it. He was relatively sure that whoever or whatever it was on the footage, they were coming out of the tunnels, but he couldn’t discount the disquieting possibility that there was something living in here for all this time.

He found nothing of the sort, aside from a fair number of spiderwebs in the more disused corners of the basement. Then his next step was to find out who kept breaking into the Archives.

“Well, at least there’s one good thing about us being all alone down here,” Jon remarked, walking up to Martin’s desk.

Martin raised his head, blinking. “There is?”

“There’s no one to watch us. No one to get in the way.”

Martin swallowed and stared off somewhere to the left. “In… in the way of what?”

“A stakeout.”

Martin’s gaze snapped back to Jon. “A what?”

“We’re going to need to stay here for a while, I expect. I’ll have to pick up another cot,” Jon remarked.

“Wait, you… what? Why are we having a stakeout in the Archives, Jon?”

“There’s someone who keeps coming in here from the tunnels in the middle of the night. We need to find out who it is.”

“There’s a--” Martin heaved a sigh. “Look, I’m going to need you to start from the beginning if you want me to move back into the Archives all of a sudden.”

“We’re not moving in, we’re just staying for a while,” Jon replied.

“Okay, but I’m going to need you to start from the beginning for that, too.”

“...all right. I’ll get the security footage for you,” Jon conceded.

* * *

After getting Martin on board with the proceedings, they agreed to set up the cots in a less-travelled aisle between a few bookshelves. Close enough to the trapdoor that they would hopefully be able to notice any visitors, but far enough that they would be unlikely to be spotted before the person or thing had fully emerged and would be easier to catch.

They slept in shifts and settled into a routine easily enough, with a few grumbles on Martin’s part.

A week passed relatively uneventfully, until Jon found himself nudged awake by Martin one night. Jon blinked blearily while Martin held a finger to his own lips and tipped his head towards the soft sounds of movement deeper within the Archives.

Jon snapped into full wakefulness and slipped off of the cot with a nod. The both of them crept down the aisle and peered around the corner. Through the gaps in some of the materials, Jon could just barely make out the figure of a person, a man, perhaps, rifling through the boxed statements several rows away. Jon squinted, trying to move into a position that he could better observe-- and his foot caught on a protruding spine of a book with a dull thud.

The figure suddenly froze, and Jon thought he caught sight of bright, piercing eyes meeting his own before the person grabbed what papers they had been looking at and made a dash for the opposite side of the aisles.

“Damn,” Jon hissed, breaking into a run to follow the figure. “Hey! Wait!” he yelled.

Whoever it was, they didn’t listen, and disappeared around a bend towards the trapdoor. Jon and Martin rounded the corner just in time to see the figure disappear into the floor.

Not through the trapdoor, but into the floor, as though the ground was being shifted out of their way. Jon stopped to stare while the floor beside the trapdoor rippled and reformed around the passage of their quarry.

“Jon! The key!” Martin exclaimed, jerking Jon back into the present.

“It’s here, but--” Jon started to say, but Martin snatched the key out of his hand and dashed for the trapdoor.

“Martin, it’s no use. You saw how they just-- went through the floor. They’re gone. Into the tunnels. It’s not… Whatever they can do down there, we’ll never find them now,” Jon pointed out.

Martin flipped open the trapdoor and reached into the darkness before straightening up and turning around. “Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Martin replied with a grin. He lifted his hand and twiddled his fingers; a single spider’s thread glinted in the light, wrapped around his fingers and extending down into the trap door.

Jon gasped, a disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “I love you,” he blurted out.

Martin’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Come on, come on! We’re losing time!” Jon grabbed Martin’s other hand and tugged him down the stairs.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning- Jon demonstrates a little bit of internalized aphobia in this chapter.

The two of them hurried down the stairs, Jon pulling a torch out of his pocket and flicking it on to illuminate the corridor and the shining thread that stretched out before them. “Did you see anything about them, before they ran?” he asked, continuing to pull Martin along with his other hand.

Martin blinked rapidly, seeming a bit dazed. “I, uh… I mean, no, not really, sorry. They looked pretty human? And kind of old?”

“Hmn. Then I suppose we’ll find out more when we catch up,” Jon remarked, and saved the rest of his breath for running.

The thread led them through several twists and turns of the tunnels, and Jon couldn’t help but notice that the intersections they passed through did not show the chalk-etched arrows that Martin had drawn on all of the tunnels near the trapdoor. Not a great sign, but they didn’t have the time to stop and consider that right now. Nor the way that the corridors seemed to be growing narrower the further they went. It didn’t take long before they were forced to press on single-file, with Martin leading the way and Jon trying to peer past him and provide enough illumination to show what lay ahead.

They rounded a corner and caught sight of their quarry, at the far end of a long straightaway, back turned to them. The figure had stuffed the files under one arm, and was holding something else up, mostly obscured by their body.

The elation Jon felt was cut short when his shoulders caught between the walls of the corridor, the rough brick scraping at his clothes and skin. Jon winced, pivoted his body to slip through the gap. But why would he get caught, if Martin had passed through without any apparent problems?

Jon glanced backwards. The passage they had come through was narrowed to less than two feet across, and somehow seemed to be getting narrower without any perceptible movement. 

“Martin! The walls!” Jon exclaimed, prompting Martin to glance at the masonry starting to press in around them.

Martin sucked in a hissing breath, wound the thread more tightly around his hand and yanked, hard. The figure staggered, dragged backwards, but began to raise the object they held once more.

“ _Stop_!” Martin yelled.

Jon froze, but Martin didn’t seem to notice, letting Jon’s hand slip from his grip and rushing forward to yank the object-- a book-- out of the other person’s unresisting hands. He snapped it shut and dropped it to the ground, kicking it further away. 

Jon would have winced, if he could move. But he couldn't. He couldn't even move his eyes to check if the walls were still closing in around him, if he was about to be crushed. Even just breathing was a struggle at this point.

Martin frisked the immobile figure, pulling another book from one pocket and tossing it away. The stolen files also fluttered to the ground.

It was only when Martin seemed to be satisfied that there weren't any active dangers present that he looked back to where Jon remained.

“Oh, no. Oh no, I’m so sorry!” Martin gasped, hurrying back to Jon’s side. “I didn’t mean to catch you in it, too."

Martin made an odd gesture with his hands, reaching out as though it was a physical web that Jon was trapped in. A quick snapping motion, and the force holding him in place suddenly disappeared. Jon slumped against a (thankfully apparently stationary) wall, catching his breath and trying to still his trembling. Martin hovered anxiously nearby. “I’m really sorry, Jon.”

“It... It’s not important,” Jon replied, straightening up and pushing past Martin towards the person-- the man, apparently-- who was still frozen in place at the end of the corridor. Jon didn’t recognize him from anywhere. What was he doing down here? "He doesn't have a gun on him, does he?"

"Not that I could find. Just the books," Martin replied, following after Jon.

Jon glanced at the (now somewhat crumpled) books lying on the floor. "I'm not sure if that's better or worse. At least I know what to expect from a gun. Could you set him loose, Martin?"

"Are… are you sure? I don't know if that's entirely safe."

"I can't very well get answers out of him like this."

"..all right." Martin stepped forward and repeated the same odd motion, something that made Jon's head hurt to try to parse it even now that he had full control of his eyes. The motion reminded Jon of the ways that Mr. Spider's many hands had moved in the picture book, so many years ago. Jon felt vaguely ill, but shoved the feeling down.

The man gasped for air and shrank away from them when he was freed.

"Don't bother trying to run again. Who are you? Why have you been sneaking into the Archives at night?” Jon demanded.

“I… I am Jurgen Leitner. And I was looking for some of Gertrude's files."

"Leit-- You're Jurgen Leitner? As in 'From the Library of'?"

"Yes."

"I… You're the one who's been living in the tunnels, aren't you? The one who's been leaving the rubbish around?"

The man, Leitner, apparently, sighed. "Yes. I thought I had been cleaning up after myself quite well, but you have sharper eyes that I gave you credit for. Something I should have expected, I suppose.”

“You… what are you doing down here? What happened? What do you have to do with the books? Tell me everything. From the beginning," Jon demanded.

"Jon, are you sure this is really what's important--" Martin started to ask.

"Yes. I need to know," Jon replied, and Martin fell silent, while Leitner began to relate the story of how he had come about constructing his Library, and the fall that had ensued.

“You said that you didn’t take any of the books with you. But those,” Jon jerked a hand towards the books, where they lay on the ground, with Martin standing between them and Leitner. “Those are more of the same, aren’t they? They let you change the tunnels. How did you get them?”

“Only one of them lets me do that. I wish your… companion hadn’t treated them so roughly, they are very delicate tools.”

“Yes, well, you’ll have to forgive us for not wanting to give you a chance to crush us,” Jon retorted, and Leitner sighed.

“As for how I came about them again, when I started working with Gertrude, she hunted down some editions I thought might help.”

“Why would Gertrude be helping you?”

“Aside from my knowledge about the books? I think she was lonely. I didn’t meet her until about six years ago; after she lost the last of her own assistants. She would mention them, sometimes. I believed she missed having someone to talk to, on occasion.”

“I... didn’t know Gertrude had assistants,” Jon said.

“Of course. Three of them, each meeting an unpleasant end.”

That sounded uncomfortably accurate, and Jon stopped watching Leitner for just a moment to glance toward Martin. Leitner continued. 

“So, when she found me, it seemed natural that we help each other. Pool our knowledge, so to speak. Work to determine what kind of powers were arrayed against us, and how best to manage the threats.”

“You keep mentioning these powers, these threats. What are they?”

“You haven’t worked that out by now? I suppose you are simply meant to be the observer, but drawing connections is what…” Leitner’s gaze darted towards Martin. “Well, I suppose that it may be in several interests to keep you in the dark, metaphorically.”

“What are they?” Jon repeated more firmly, starting to lose patience.

Leitner laid out his theory of the dark powers that apparently played with the world, while Jon found his mind torn between a desperate, self-preservatory need to rationalize the explanation away, and the busy part of himself that worked to provide so many past situations that made significantly more sense when this context was supplied.

“So you and Gertrude were trying to work against these... forces?”

“To the extent that such things can be opposed, I suppose. It’s why I’ve kept visiting the Archives. Gertrude had compiled many useful files on such things, but I cannot seem to find them, no matter how hard I look. When you first began to enter the tunnels, I contemplated speaking with you, offering to join forces as I had with Gertrude. But there was never an opportunity to approach you when you weren't accompanied by the… the servant of the Web. And I didn't wish to become caught in whatever scheme is being woven by it," Leitner glanced at Martin and sighed. "I suppose that it is too late for that, now."

"Why would you want to speak with me?"

"Because you are Gertrude's successor. You might have further knowledge about where the files could have been kept, or other insights."

"You keep claiming that you have these noble intentions, that you just want to work together. But Gertrude died and rotted in these tunnels for over a year. You didn’t try to reach out to anyone, or communicate, or do anything but sneak around the Archives. That doesn’t seem to line up. Did you kill Gertrude?"

"No. Of course not. I had a vested interest in seeing her succeed. Her death was a setback, one that we can scarce afford at this point.”

“Then who did?”

“I believe it was Elias.”

“What? Elias? No, he was on the security tapes, I saw him.”

“Simple mechanical eyes, in his place of power? You think he can’t control everything they see? Assuming such interference wouldn’t ruin them beyond recovery, of course.”

“His… The Institute? It… It belongs to one of them, doesn’t it?” Jon asked.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

“The Eye…”

“I have also heard it called Beholding.”

“And I…”

“You belong to it, too.”

“I…” Jon thought about Prentiss, about the spiral of her statement into devotion to the song of the hive, about the feeling of worms burrowing into his skin. He thought about Michael, about razor sharp fingers slicing through his wrist, about Helen wandering lost and hopeless in the endless maze of tunnels.

He thought about Martin, about spiders converging on him from all directions, about webs that snared and trapped and killed, about a cold voice that tore away free will, tore away agency, tore away life.

He thought about Martin, about carefully prepared cups of tea, about a warm hand in his, about soft smiles and bright smiles and tired smiles.

Jon took a long, shuddering breath. “Fine. I don’t… I’ll deal with that later. Why would Elias kill Gertrude?”

"I assume he discovered that we planned to destroy the Archives."

"You… what? Why would Gertrude want to destroy the Archives?"

"To stop the Beholding, your master. It’s been gathering power for quite a while now, and Gertrude predicted that it would be making its move relatively soon,” Leitner answered.

“It… So that’s why you need the files?”

“Yes. I’m beginning to suspect that Elias may have moved them somewhere else after he murdered Gertrude. If you could just help me to find them...”

“I don’t see any reason why I should. I don’t trust you. I don’t even think I believe you. You keep saying that you need these files to destroy the Archives, but why? You’ve had essentially unsupervised access to the Archives for nearly two years. If you wanted to destroy it, all you would need to do is purchase a can of petrol and tamper with the fire suppression system enough that it wouldn’t go off in time to save the building. Yet you’ve spent all this time skulking around, looking for these supposed files. Either you’re a coward, or you’re lying,” Jon said.

“That’s not-- The building itself isn’t the important part. Or, not entirely, at least. It’s merely a shell. The function of its power could be as easily moved to a tent, or a street corner, so long as the ends were still served. If I don’t have information about those other avenues, then… Well, a wounded animal is when it is at its most dangerous.”

“The way you described the powers before, all you would be able to do to it would be to wound it, if that. A minor inconvenience seems more likely.”

“I wasn’t referring to the Beholding,” Leitner replied. “But even if I was, it isn’t the only thing that we need to concern ourselves with. Gertrude’s files also contained all of her notes on the Stranger, and the preparations that they have begun to implement. I need to be able to learn enough to put a stop to that, as well.”

“It seems very convenient that you’ve come up with another threat just when it seems that your argument about destroying my place of work doesn’t seem to be persuasive enough,” Jon shot back.

Leitner looked incredulous for a moment, then resigned. “...very well. If you’re anything like Gertrude was, I won’t be able to sway your stubbornness once you have made up your mind. Then, what are you going to do with me?” Leitner asked uneasily.

Jon and Martin glanced at each other. None of the options at hand seemed like reasonable choices. Could they really let someone like Leitner roam free, with the access he had to the Archives? But what else could they do with him? Jon sighed. “I… I got the answers to my questions. So, I suppose you can go,” Jon said, ignoring Martin’s short sound of protest. “But we’re taking the books with us.”

“You… No, you can’t.”

“I’m fairly sure we can. And I’m not about to turn my back on you and leave you to entomb us in this place.”

“I wouldn’t…” Leitner trailed off when he seemed to realize that Jon wasn’t interested in hearing his protests. “Fine. Take The Seven Lamps of Architecture, if you must. But, please, leave me the other one.”

“What does it do?”

“It allows me to stay hidden. It’s something that I desperately require, if I am to survive. You would be killing me, by leaving me otherwise defenceless.”

“It… You can’t harm us with it?”

“Not unless I could somehow force you to read the whole thing,” Leitner responded, and looked a little bit more ill as the implication of what he said sank in, and his eyes trailed back towards Martin.

“Fine. Keep it. Bad enough that I have to deal with one evil book, let alone two,” Jon said. Martin picked up the larger of the two books, because Jon had his hands full with the torch and with a tape recorder. Jon’s hand had been free previously, but he couldn’t remember when he had started holding the running tape recorder. Some time around when he started speaking to Leitner, Jon suspected.

“I… I expect you would already know this, but don’t read that book. If consumed recklessly, it will entomb you without any assistance from myself or anyone else,” Leitner called to them, as they went to squeeze through the corridor through which they had come.

Jon didn’t reply. They managed to make it back to the trap door without getting lost, somehow, and decided to hide the book away in a filing box, under a pile of uncategorized statements, shoved into a back and dusty corner of the storage room. Jon didn’t want to have it anywhere near his apartment, and right now he desperately just wanted to go home. He was frantically trying to hold together his worldview as everything turned precarious as a house of cards. He didn’t want to think about evil gods or whatever they were, about nefarious plots, about his boss apparently being a murderer.

He just wanted to go home and have everything be stable for just a little while longer.

And so he and Martin made their way back to the apartment. Neither of them seemed to be much in the mood for talking.

At least, not until they got back inside, and Martin spoke up before Jon went to disappear into his bedroom. “Jon, I, I know this is probably the least important thing that we have to worry about, but I, uh… Well, I kind of need to get some kind of explanation for it, about, about what you said, earlier…”

"What I said?" Jon asked.

"You, uh, you said that you loved-- but that's ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, it, it was just a turn of phrase, or something you only said in the heat of the moment, or something like that, obviously. I shouldn't have brought it up, nevermind."

"What? I said-- oh. Oh." Jon remembered now. He hadn't even thought about saying the words. They had just come out, like a reflex. Like laughing at a joke, or gasping at a surprise. Something so natural that he hadn't even needed to think about it.

Something that had been a part of him for a long time, now.

He loved Martin.

It was simultaneously a stunning revelation and something that he had known for ages and just never put it into words before.

"... it was in the heat of the moment, but it wasn't just a turn of phrase. I meant it--" Jon stopped, realizing what that meant. What it might change. "But I shouldn't have said it."

"You-- What? Why not?" Martin asked.

“I… I'm your boss, Martin. This isn't… it's not appropriate for me to…” Jon said.

Martin blinked, looking perplexed. “Under normal circumstances, yeah. But this isn't exactly a normal situation. For starters, I don't think you _could_ fire me, not even if you wanted to. And, and besides, it's not like we haven't already crossed some professional boundaries. I mean, we're already living together, kind of…”

Jon shook his head. “That's another reason why I shouldn't… I'm the only thing between you and homelessness, Martin. The implications of--”

“Jon,” Martin said, and Jon fell silent. “I don't really think this is about you worrying about being coercive. You already know how I feel about you. And… and you don't need to make excuses. If you don't want to do this, for any reason, you can just tell me no. I won't push you.”

“I don't… I don't _not_ want to do this,” Jon said, then mentally kicked himself for sounding like a complete idiot. “I did… I meant it, what I said before. But I'm… scared.”

Martin nodded, shifting a half-step further away from Jon. “Yeah, that makes sense. This whole spider thing of mine has to be pretty off-putting, especially for you. It's all right.”

“What? No, I'm not scared of you! For you, maybe. But not… The worry I have, about this topic specifically, it's not the 'spider thing'. It's- I'm scared that I'll ruin everything, if I try this. I… Well, let's just say I don't have the best track record with relationships. You may not have noticed, but I can be a bit of an ass,” Jon said dryly.

Martin smiled at him, and it wasn't fair what that did to Jon’s heart. It wasn’t fair that Jon could finally _notice_ what it did to his heart. “Well, now that you bring it up, I might be able to remember a few instances of that. You know, if I think about it really, really hard.”

“Shut up, Martin,” Jon grumbled.

“Yeah, there's one. Look, I do have some idea of what you're like, Jon. I don't know everything, of course. I don't know if I ever will. But I’m pretty sure I'd like it, having the opportunity to learn more, if you'd let me. Even when you're being an ass.”

Jon took a deep breath, gathering up his courage. “Well, you should probably know one more thing about me, before you make that call. I'm asexual. I don't want to, and won't, participate in any sexual activity, not with anyone. Not even with you. And that won't change. I won't ever be 'ready'.”

Martin blinked at him, the smile dropping off of his face.

Jon looked away. “I know, it's not… I know you have a limited amount of options with your condition and it's not fair that even when you find someone who… cares for you that you still don't have someone who can provide… but I can't. I won't. Not ever,” he said rapidly, trying to get the tumble of thoughts out of his head before everything came crashing down on him.

“Jon,” Martin said softly. Jon heard him step forward, and Martin's fingers rested gently on the hand that Jon had clenched at his side. “Don't- don't apologize for something like that. It's not… I love _you_. All of you. I wouldn't ever ask you to compromise a fundamental part of yourself. I would never want you to do that, especially not because of me. I’m really happy that you told me about this. That you trusted me with this. And I'd like to… to give this a try. A relationship. If you want to. And, and if you don't, then I'll still be your friend. That won't change. Okay?”

Jon swallowed around a lump in his throat. After he'd ruined things with Georgie, he'd been sure that he would never find anyone else who would be willing to put up with him when they wouldn't even get sex out of the deal. He looked up, meeting Martin's eyes. He unclenched his hand and turned it so that he could hold Martin's loosely. “Then, yes. I'd like to be with you.”

Martin beamed, and he squeezed Jon's hand. “That's fantastic! Can I… can I kiss you? And hug you? I'd really like to hug you right now. You can say no if you don't want to, though! Please tell me if I suggest or try to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, I don't want to cross your boundaries or anything and I'm just really really happy--”

“Relax, Martin. I'll let you know,” Jon replied, stepping closer and winding his arms around Martin's shoulders.

Martin let out a bright laugh and wrapped his arms around Jon's middle, holding him tightly and spinning around in a circle, pulling Jon off his feet and dragging him along for the ride. Jon had enough time to make a high, surprised sound, and then he was set back on his feet. “Sorry, really excited. I'd normally be thinking this was a dream or something but I never get good dreams so this must be real, you know?”

“I know what you mean,” Jon replied, stroking his thumb against the soft fabric of Martin's shirt where it laid over his back. “Though talking about nightmares is a bit of a mood killer.”

Martin nodded. “Sorry. Right. No talking about nightmares, then, or about spiders or tunnels or haunted tape recorders or--”

“Just shut up and kiss me, would you?” Jon demanded, curling a hand around the back of Martin's neck.

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Martin replied, leaning in closer.

Jon made a disgruntled noise. “What part of ‘shut up’ didn't you-- mmn,” the rest of Jon's complaint was muffled against Martin's mouth as he dipped his head down and kissed him. Martin's lips were warm and soft and dry, tentative and a little awkward. Their noses bumped against each other before they both managed to tilt their heads the correct way to let them fit together. Jon catalogued the sensations, the slight scuff of the start of stubble on Martin's face, the way that Martin's mouth was still partly curled in a smile even now, the give of his lips against Jon's, the warm brush of breath as Martin sighed against him, the bright burst of joy in Jon's chest, almost terrifying in how unfamiliar it felt.

It was perfect.

Martin ran a hand up Jon's back and Jon shivered against him. Martin drew back, breaking the kiss. “Was that okay?” he asked.

Jon was relatively sure he was grinning like an idiot, so he didn't know why Martin felt the need to ask. “More than adequate, yes,” he replied.

“No, um, well, I'm glad you liked the kiss but that's not what I was asking, exactly. You just shuddered and I don't know if I did something wrong?”

“Oh. No, that was a good reaction. I tend to keep tension in my back and shoulders, so it's nice to, ah, have some feedback there. At least, when it's from someone I trust. Never managed to relax enough around any professional masseuses,” Jon admitted.

Martin's eyes lit up. “So, something like this?” he asked, curling the fingers of the hand that rested high on Jon's back and lightly dragging his nails down the length of Jon's spine. Jon’s breath left him in a shuddering exhale and he melted against Martin, only his arms slung around Martin's neck keeping him upright. “Oh. Wow.”

Jon felt his face go hot, and he straightened up. “It's… I haven't had someone do that since… I'm not used to that sensation any more,” he explained.

“Well, I'm happy to help out, if you'd like to get used to it again,” Martin replied. “I didn't know there was something that could actually get you to relax.”

“You're going to take advantage of this, aren't you?” Jon asked flatly.

“Well, maybe,” Martin replied with a smile that Jon didn't want to like as much as he did. “It's kind of adorable? You're like a cat.”

“Hmn. I suppose there are less flattering things in this world to be compared to,” Jon muttered.

“It's a compliment!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The content of Leitner's answers which I skimmed over can be found in MAG 80- The Librarian.


	31. Chapter 31

Martin rested his forehead against Jon's. "Could… could you you say it again? You know, not in the heat of the moment?" he asked.

"Ah. Well. I…" Jon cleared his throat. "I love you, Martin."

Martin grinned and leaned forward to press another quick kiss to Jon's lips. "I love you, too.”

"Yes, I gathered as much," Jon drawled.

Martin snorted, drawing back a little. "God, you really can't stop being sardonic for one second, can you?"

"You're the one who signed up for this," Jon pointed out.

"I did," Martin's hand drifted up to card his fingers gently through the hair at the nape of Jon's neck. "And I'd do it again, too."

"So long as you're aware of what you're getting into," Jon muttered, relaxing against Martin's body and resting his head against his shoulder. Martin's arms curled more snugly around him.

They stayed there quietly for several long moments, wrapped up in one another.

Then Martin heaved a sign. "So, uh, this is pretty great and all, but I think we should probably talk about, well, about everything else that happened tonight," Martin finally said.

Jon pressed his face against Martin's breastbone and grumbled something indecipherable.

"I know. But we still need to go into work tomorrow, either that or try to pull a Tim and leave town. And if it's really true that Elias… If he’s really a killer, then..."

Jon sighed and drew back enough that his voice wasn't muffled in Martin's jumper. "What is there that we really can do? We can't have the police arrest him; he's got an alibi from the security footage, and I doubt that law enforcement is going to accept supernatural editing of the footage as an explanation for that. We don't have any proof."

"I won't let him hurt you, Jon," Martin said, and Jon didn't like how cold his eyes and voice had suddenly become, even as his hands held Jon so gently.

Jon shivered. "Don't… don't do anything drastic yet, all right? We don't even definitively know if it’s true that he murdered Gertrude. We need more information. And… besides, there's no reason to assume that he'll be dangerous towards us, just yet.”

“I feel like disposing of meddling kids is pretty standard villain fare,” Martin pointed out.

“He doesn’t even know that we’re meddling yet, though.”

“Are you sure about that? I mean, he's part of the thing that owns the Institute, right? The Eye? And, and I'm pretty sure that's what the tape recorders are a part of, too. Unless you've had those things following you around since before you started working at the Institute?"

Jon went still, then snapped his gaze over to the tape recorder he'd dumped on the coffee table, the reels still spinning. "Shit." He pulled himself free from Martin's arms and snatched it up, switching the machine off. Too late to conceal anything meaningful, though. If it was even possible that the tapes were… spying on them somehow.

How much did Elias already know?

Jon shivered, tightening his grip on the recorder. "There has to be a reason why Elias replaced Gertrude. A reason why I… there's something happening to me. I… belong to it, too. And Elias set it in motion. If… if my purpose is something that could be easily fulfilled, then Elias probably would have let me die when Prentiss attacked the Institute, instead of intervening. There's still something he wants from me. And, so long as I'm more useful than not…"

“That seems like a pretty big ‘if’, when we don’t even know what your... use is supposed to be. And whatever it is, I doubt it’s anything good.”

Jon let out a humorless huff of a laugh. “Well, it seems like my life is nothing but a series of gambles with ever-increasing odds, so at least this fits the trend.”

Martin stepped up close to him and laid a hand over Jon’s shoulder. “Hey. We’ll figure something out, okay? It’s going to be all right.”

Jon didn’t believe a word of that reassurance, but he just blew out a long breath and slumped against Martin again. “Well. If Elias is going to immediately murder us the moment we turn up for work tomorrow, there isn’t very much we can do about that,” he said.

There really wasn’t, not for him. He could postpone it for a time, perhaps, but the idea of never returning to the Archives was somehow inconceivable, like the idea of never taking another breath. And Martin… Martin might just be able to untangle himself from whatever they had both been ensnared in, but Jon knew that Martin would never let Jon return there alone. “If he doesn’t, then we’ll have at least some time to mull over our options. We don’t have enough information to make a call right now,” Jon continued.

"Do you think we will ever have  _ enough _ information?"

"...I don't know. But we can try."

"Okay. Okay, we'll deal with this tomorrow. You're right, there isn't a lot we can do right this moment, and it's late. For now, just try to get some sleep," Martin said, pecking Jon on the cheek before he let go of him.

* * *

The next morning somehow didn't feel any different, in spite of the revelations of the last night.

Jon now had a name for the warmth that curled through his chest when he opened his bedroom door to find Martin scooping scrambled eggs onto two plates and pouring out two cups of tea, but the sensation itself wasn't new.

The sense of lurking, impending doom at what the rest of the day might hold wasn't anything new, either.

_ It's because you didn't really learn anything new last night _ , a part of him answered.

Well, no, that wasn't strictly true. Jon certainly hadn't suspected that Jurgen Leitner of all people would have been hiding out in the tunnels beneath the Institute.

But everything else... It was only a confirmation of all the suspicions that Jon already had.

He'd known that Gertrude had been murdered by someone close to the Institute. He'd began to pick up on threads of similar themes and motives across the statements, shapes of the powers behind them. He'd felt the gaze of the thing in the Institute, felt the draw of the questions that burned in his mind. He'd known the path that he had been on for a long time now, and had just been afraid to look down and confirm it. Afraid to look back and realize that there wasn't any way out.

Jon took a deep breath and continued into the kitchen. 

Martin glanced up from the food. "Good morning, Jon," he said, fidgeting with his hands for a moment before returning his gaze to the plates and gathering them up. "I, uh, are you hungry?"

"I am," Jon replied, as he walked over to Martin and leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

Martin blushed and nearly dumped their breakfast onto the floor. He caught himself in time and hurriedly set the plates down on that table before turning back toward Jon, the start of a giddy smile pulling at his lips. "So last night was real, then?"

"Yes, it was real. ...all of it."

Martin's smile faded. "Yeah. Are you… all right?"

Jon snorted. "No. I don't believe that I'll ever be 'all right' again."

Martin's expression fell further, and he took a step closer to Jon, reaching out tentatively. After a moment's hesitation-- giving Jon time to flinch away?-- Martin gathered Jon into his arms. "I'm sorry. I wish… I wish I could fix this for you."

Jon slumped against Martin. "It's not something either of us can change. On the bright side, at least we're in this together, now."

Martin made an unhappy noise. "I'd rather be dealing with this alone, than have you be stuck with me."

"The sentiment is appreciated, but I think it's too late for that."

Martin sighed and loosened his hold on Jon, drawing away until he was only holding Jon's hand, which he used to pull him toward the kitchen table. "I suppose. Come on, the tea is getting cold."

They settled at the table, side by side. The two of them held hands for a moment longer, before Jon pointed out that he needed his dominant hand to eat with.

"Are you sure that, that you want to go into the Archives today? You could call in sick or something." Martin asked, as they began the meal.

"I can't imagine that giving Elias more time to plan will end well. And I'm not letting you go back alone. We may as well get this over with," Jon replied.

"...all right," Martin conceded.

* * *

Elias was waiting for them when they went down the stairs. Jon felt his arm twitch at his side, and he viciously suppressed the urge to grab Martin's hand.

"Hello, Jon. Martin," Elias said, smiling. "Nice to have you both here, it will save some time."

"It will?" Jon repeated.

"Yes. I have someone to introduce to you. I know that it's been difficult for the two of you, with Sasha and Tim gone, so I found someone to help lighten the load."

"You… what?" Jon said, looking in the direction that Elias gestured towards. Towards the assistants' desks.

Towards Melanie, who sat there, signing the last few sheets of what Jon recognized as a contract.

Jon's stomach dropped.

"I believe you already know Ms. King, Jon. You provided a reference for her to Diana. I came across her in the Library, and by happy coincidence, she turned out to be available for the archival assistant posting. Now she'll be able to assist you, and access materials for her own research that she would not normally have the clearance for. Everyone wins."

"I… ah…" Words had deserted Jon. He wanted to dash across the room and snatch the contract away from Melanie, but it was already too late. She set the pen down.

“Martin, would you mind showing Melanie the ropes this morning? I have something that I’d like to discuss with Jon,” Elias continued.

Martin seemed similarly stunned, but he snapped back to attention at that sentence. “Discuss what?”

“I don’t really think that’s your concern. Jon?” Elias gestured toward the office.

Jon glanced over at Martin, and didn’t like the look in his eyes, nor the memories of dragging threads that it brought to the surface. If Jon didn’t want things to escalate… “All right,” Jon said, following Elias into his office and shutting the door with a soft  _ snick _ . “What would you like to speak to me about?”

Elias sighed. “I know that you’ve been spending most of your nights in the Archives. Rosie told me that the only time she’s seen you come or go from the Institute in the last week is when you’ve left to get food. Honestly, I half expected to find you sleeping in the storage room when I came down here this morning. Whatever has been occupying so much of your attention, I can’t condone you living here. It isn’t good for your health.”

“Is that a threat?” Jon demanded.

“A threat? I don’t know that I can fire you for being  _ too  _ diligent, Jon.”

“Don’t be coy. I know what you did to Gertrude.”

“I never had to have this talk with Gertrude, actually. She never attempted to move into the Archives.”

“But she did something to merit being shot.”

Elias blinked. “You think that I… What gave you that idea, Jon? Do you need me to recommend a therapist? This… paranoia that you’re indulging isn’t healthy.”

“It isn’t paranoia, I know that you--” Jon bit back the rest of his accusation. He didn’t have any proof, and Elias seemed intent on playing ignorant. The only ‘evidence’ he had was a speculation from Jurgen Leitner, and ranting that a man who had vanished twenty years ago accused Jon’s boss of murder wasn’t exactly compelling.

Why was Elias denying it, anyway? Did he just enjoy gaslighting Jon?

_ What gave you that idea? _ echoed in Jon’s head, followed by a different memory of a voice.

_ It allows me to stay hidden _ , those had been Leitner’s words last night. How well hidden was he? Did Elias know who he was?

Jon met Elias’ eyes, and thought he saw a spark of the same hunger he felt burning in his own skull. He was trying to get information out of Jon. Maybe.

If Jon still had things that Elias wanted to know, if Jon was still interesting, would he be safer?

It was almost certain that Gertrude died with secrets as well, but Jon would take what little insurance he could get. He sighed. “I’m… sorry. It’s… The stress of the job must be getting to me,” Jon said, begrudgingly.

“Hmn,” Elias replied, and Jon thought he could hear the disappointment in his voice. “Well, with any luck, Ms. King should lighten the load some. Just… don’t accuse her of being a murderer as well, Jon. It creates a bit of a hostile work environment.”

Elias left the Archives, leaving Jon with more questions than answers, and with one more person whose wellbeing he was suddenly responsible for.


	32. Chapter 32

Jon followed after Elias when he walked out of Jon's office, mostly because he was concerned that Martin might try to ambush Elias if he left alone.

Martin stood by Sasha's… Melanie's desk, now, Jon supposed, and watched Elias leave. It was only when he disappeared back up the stairs that Martin hurried over to Jon. "Are you all right? He didn't try anything, did he?"

"I'm fine, Martin," Jon replied.

"Try anything? Like what? He doesn't… get handsy, does he?" Melanie asked, shooting a glare towards the stairs Elias had disappeared up.

"No. It isn't like that," Jon replied.

"Good, I'd rather not have this job end with me needing to sock my boss in the jaw," Melanie remarked.

“I believe that I count as your boss now, actually,” Jon remarked.

“Yeah. I’d rather not have to sock you in the jaw either.”

“Well. I’ll try not to do anything to deserve that. More to the point, why are you here? Why would you sign onto this? Is selling contrived ghost stories to a gullible public no longer paying the bills?” Jon demanded.

“You’re one to talk about gullible,” Melanie retorted. “But… no. It isn’t. Ghost Hunt UK is… well, it’s not really anyone but me, anymore. And I don’t have the editing skills to get anything polished enough to put in front of our subscribers, never mind the issues with sound and lighting and… It isn’t important. Point is, I kind of need the money. I could probably scrape by for a few more months before things get really desperate, but I’m not really in a position to turn down a job offer that gets dropped in my lap. So when Elias came to me with one, with no need for filling out dozens of frustrating applications, and not having to explain… recent events… to an interviewer, I wasn’t about to turn him down. I’ve been spending most of my time here, in the Library, anyway. Might as well be getting paid for it.”

“So a strange man comes up to you, out of nowhere, immediately offers you a job without asking for any qualifications, references, CV, anything, and you just take it?” Jon asked incredulously.

“You’re making it sound like I followed some weirdo offering me free candy. I’ve seen Elias around here before. And Diana knew him. As for the qualifications and things, well, you guys aren’t exactly known for your discerning tastes. It sounds like you’ve been having a hard time in the Archives, and I figured Elias was just desperate for another set of hands.”

“A hard time is putting it  _ lightly _ ,” Jon exclaimed in exasperation. He took a deep breath. “Look. I know… I’m sorry about your team not… being together any more. But this place is… it’s… You should try to quit. Right now. It might not be too late for you.”

“I-- What?! Are you really hazing me right now?” Melanie demanded.

“No, I’m serious. You don’t want to be here, believe me. You should get out and never come back.”

“Wow, you’re even more of a bastard than I remember. You’re still that offended that I insulted this place?”

“No! I don’t care about that! I just don’t want you to die!” Jon snapped.

“...so you’re completely unhinged, then. Great. What a great start to the day. Just what I needed,” Melanie growled, throwing up her hands. She glared at Jon. “Whatever your bloody problem with me is, you better get over it, fast. You’re stuck with me now. I’m not giving up this job, and if you try to fire me for no goddamn reason then I’m going to bring a wrongful termination lawsuit down on this place so fast it will make your head spin.”

Jon let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “God, I wish that was the worst thing I had to worry about,” he muttered, then heaved a sigh. “It’s probably too late for any of this, anyway, even if you did want to quit. I can’t… I can’t deal with this right now. Martin. Try to get her up to speed, or something. Set her up in the computer system. I don’t know. I suppose if she’s stuck here now she may as well know how things work.”

Jon went back to his office and closed the door before he collapsed at his desk and buried his his face in his hands. This was his fault. He had been so distracted by the Not-Sasha situation that he'd done anything to keep the peace with Melanie, and that had put her right in harm's way. He should have refused to let her use the Library. Should have driven her away while there was still time. But now it was too late. Now she was here, sat at the same desk that Sasha had used.

Her head on the same chopping block as Sasha's had been.

He needed to do better, needed to not fail Melanie too, but he didn't even know what he was supposed to be protecting everyone  _ from _ .

"Dammit," Jon muttered to himself.

He needed answers.

Leitner might have more answers, but Jon couldn't trust him. And besides, he'd left the man with a book that could hide him from observation. The chances of finding the man again if he did not want to be found…

Elias knew more than he was letting on, but he was the one who got Melanie involved in this mess, and almost certainly the one who murdered Gertrude. He definitely couldn't trust Elias.

That left the tapes, then. Gertrude had more of the picture than he did. (For all the good that did her.) He needed to work out what she knew, and hopefully find something useful. Something to keep them safer. There might be other statements in the Archives that could be of use, too.

Everything came down to the bloody statements, didn't it?

Jon would have to retrieve some of Gertrude's tapes tonight. If the police were still suspicious of him… well, getting arrested was the least of his worries right now. Besides, Basira hadn't seemed to be looking too closely into him, and no one else seemed to give a damn about the case.

He would have to work out what to tell Basira when she returned and asked about any progress on his investigations on the mysterious figure in the security footage… Jon could ask Martin, Martin should be able to come up with a decent lie.

For now, he would have to work with the resources at hand.

* * *

The door to Jon's office swung open a few hours later. "Hi, Jon. I got you some tea."

Jon looked up from the mass of papers he'd been shuffling through and gave Martin a weary smile. "Thank you. How… how is everything going?"

"Well, Melanie still thinks you're an asshole. I tried talking her around, but, well, explaining this isn't easy in the best circumstances, and she wasn't having any of it. I sent her to go cross-reference some details from a couple statements with the information we have in the Library. She already seems to get on with Diana and I figured it would… give you both some breathing room."

Jon sighed. "That's… probably for the best."

Martin closed the door and set the teacup down on Jon's desk. "Also, I, uh, kind of noticed something. When you were talking to Melanie. And, and before that, too. You know, in the tunnels?"

"What is it?"

"People just… tell you things. When you ask them. Personal stuff, secret stuff, any stories in particular, it seems like. All of it, it just comes out."

"That is the point of asking questions, Martin."

"Yeah, but it's not usually like that. People don't normally spill all their secrets to some random guy asking them personal questions. And it's… well, it's not like you're particularly charming?" Martin added, tentatively.

"Thanks for that," Jon muttered.

"I mean, I like you! But you're not exactly a people person, Jon."

"... That's fair," Jon admitted. "But what exactly are you trying to get at?"

"I don't… the weird stuff, the stuff that's happening to you because of the Eye or whatever. I don't think it's just limited to the tape recorders acting funny around you. Do you remember when you were scared of me, and you demanded to know why I'd want to look after you? Or when you wanted me to talk about my spider thing? I didn't… I didn't want to tell you about that. I didn't want to talk about it, but suddenly I did. Like there wasn't any option but to talk to you. To tell you the answers to any questions you asked."

"You… what, you're claiming that I can force people to give me the answers to my questions?"

"I mean, it seems like it. When, when it was just me I could rationalize it away. I don't like lying to you, and maybe I subconsciously really did want to talk about it? But with last night, and with Melanie, there's definitely a pattern emerging."

"I…" Jon didn't want to believe it. The tape recorders were bad enough in terms of a confirmation that he'd been… claimed, but at least they were something external. Having something change an internal part of him, change the way that he could interact with others, felt so much more invasive. So much more permanent. But the evidence lined up, didn't it? Leitner hadn't just told them his story because they had cornered him and he was scared; he had never had a choice in the matter. Jon let out a shuddering breath and wrapped trembling hands around the teacup. "God, we make quite the pair, don't we? Team 'I don't think you really need that free will, do you?' "

"I, I mean, as far as forcing people to do things, I think  _ talking _ is probably one of the least bad ones?" Martin said.

"Well, you were on the receiving end of it, weren't you? I've been doing it to you for months, now. What do you think?"

"There’s-- there’s a lot of things that I’d rather not have told you, and it hurt,” Martin admitted.

"That's what I thought,” Jon said.

"That’s not- I mean, it’s true, it hurt at the time, but telling you those things mostly worked out for the best in the end. It's... it isn't as bad as it could be."

“I doubt many other people would see it that way.”

“Jon… Look, you trust me, right? I mean, I hope you trust me. I, I probably should have asked if you did before we got into this, because it’d be pretty messed up if you thought I that I might--”

“Yes, I trust you not to hurt me, Martin,” Jon interjected.

“Oh! That’s good. Great. Um. Anyway, I’m… I can do things that are a lot worse than making people answer my questions. And you still trust me. So, so you shouldn’t have to worry about yourself,” Martin pointed out.

“I… I think I trust you more than I trust myself,” Jon admitted.

“Ah,” Martin said, pausing. “Um. Well. Then, then we’ll just have to try to keep each other stable?”

“...I suppose.”

* * *

They retrieved several tapes from the storage locker after work. Jon, having absolutely no idea of what he was looking for, let alone how to find any tapes with specific information on them, picked a pile at random. They had to start somewhere.

Listening to Sergeant Walter Heller’s statement definitely did not make Jon feel any better about his situation.

But there were more Archives. There were other people who had dealt with this sort of thing. Granted, none of it seemed to end well, not for Gertrude and not for whatever the… thing… was that lurked beneath Alexandria. But it was more information. Jon wasn’t walking an entirely unexplored path. Maybe there was something useful to be found.

The only thing he could find was more violence. The explosion that had destroyed the place… Had Gertrude been involved? Leitner had said that she wanted to destroy the Archives. Was this a… practice run of sorts?

If the Magnus Institute were to be blown up, would that free the people tied to it? Or just render them all the more vulnerable to the other Entities that lurked in the shadows?

The thought of damage being done to the Archives made Jon’s stomach twist. There had to be another way. A loophole in the contracts. A way to get out from under the gaze of the Eye. Jon just had to find it.

But judging by the way that Martin was beginning to hover around him, Jon wasn’t going to be finding it tonight. He reluctantly allowed Martin to put away his laptop and herd Jon into his bedroom.

Getting to squeeze Martin’s hand and press a goodnight kiss to his lips made the frustration of needing to sleep more bearable. The lingering feeling of the touch was something warm and bright to hold onto as he flicked off the lights and crawled into bed.

It didn’t follow him into the nightmares.

* * *

Jon could really, really have done with one morning where he didn’t come down into the Archives to find another unpleasant confrontation.

Fate apparently had different plans in store for him, though.

“You dragged someone else into this mess?!” Tim demanded angrily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The statement that Jon listened to is the one from MAG 53- Crusader.
> 
> The events that Melanie references are from MAG 76- The Smell of Blood


	33. Chapter 33

“Ah. Tim. You’re… back,” Jon said.

“Yeah. Yeah, funny thing, that. I got sick, and the longer I stayed away, the worse it got. Barely managed to drag myself onto a plane by the end of it, but walking in here? Good as new. Well, except for all the worm scars, at least. Seems like this place has one hell of an employee retention plan.”

“That’s--”

“But I guess ruining my life and getting Sasha killed wasn't enough for you, was it? I met Melanie coming up the stairs on my way down here. Says she works for the Archives now."

"She does, but that wasn't my doing. Elias was the one who hired her."

"You should have stopped him."

Jon sighed. "You're right. I should have. I didn't think that Elias would be so proactive in finding a replacement for… in finding another assistant. I tried to get her to leave, when I realized what happened, but--"

"It wasn't Jon's fault, Tim." Martin added, coming further down the stairs.

Tim's gaze snapped over to Martin, and he took a step backwards. "You're still here, then."

Martin shrugged. "I can't leave either."

Tim shook his head. "Well, I suppose that dying would at least get me out of this place," he muttered.

"I don't want to hurt you, Tim."

"Sure. Because hanging out with monsters has turned out so well for all the people in these, hasn't it?" Tim replied gesturing at the stacks of statements.

"I mean, Michael helped us. With the fire extinguishers," Martin pointed out.

"Great. Might as well hire that thing as well then, right? Let's see how many abominations we can pack into this place."

Jon glanced at Martin, who met Jon's eyes and shook his head.

"Look, I'll just… leave you alone, all right? You can pretend I'm not here," Martin said.

"Suppose I don't really have any other option, do I?"

* * *

 

Things settled into something of an uneasy peace for most of the day, with Jon staying in his office, Melanie apparently staying in the Library, and Martin and Tim doing their best to ignore each other.

Jon found several promising news articles and journal papers involving findings apparently from the Library of Alexandria, and sent them to the printer so he would have something to mark up and file away. He emerged to collect the papers from the printer in the main area of the Archives.

Martin intercepted him on the way back to his office. "I made you a cup of tea, Jon," he said, holding it out.

"Thank you, Martin," Jon replied absentmindedly, taking the offered cup and turning his head to lean up and peck Martin on the cheek before wandering into his office, still reading the printouts in his other hand. He nudged the door closed with a foot, but it didn't quite latch shut.

He paused to take a sip of his tea, and his attention was drawn by the sound of Tim's voice outside his office, angry and accusatory.

"Martin. What the _hell_ did you do to Jon?" he demanded.

"I… what? I just got him some tea. Like always?" Main replied.

"Yeah, you did. And then he kissed you. The guy who you've had a hopeless crush on for years. The guy who actively despised you for most of those years. And now you've got some creepy spider powers- which, by the way, are another thing that Jon hates- and all of a sudden, he's kissing you."

Jon's blood ran cold. He hadn't thought about how Tim might interpret that. He hadn't even thought about the fact that he'd kissed Martin in the Archives. He’d been distracted, he hadn’t thought--

"No, that's not… I would never--"

"It sure _looks_ like that's what you're doing. Wouldn't have believed it before, but I guess monsters are monsters, aren't they?" Tim spat.

”Tim, I'm not- I'm not forcing anything on Jon. I swear. I don't--"

Jon hurriedly set down the tea and yanked open the door to his office. "Martin. Please leave, I think I need to speak with Tim alone."

"But--"

"Out."

Martin left.

Tim eyed Jon warily. "Gonna tell me it's all of your own free will, boss?"

Jon sighed. He was uncomfortably aware of how often victims of abuse would defend their abusers, even when supernatural coercion wasn't an option on the table. And how anything he told Tim would almost certainly be viewed in that light. "I would, if I expected that to convince you. Come in and sit down,"  he said, motioning to his office.

Tim scowled, but he got up from his desk and stalked into Jon's office. His gaze trailed down to the wastebasket next to Jon's desk, where the remains of the cobwebs Jon had cleared away this morning had been discarded. Whatever spiders had colonized his office, they were persistent; Jon still came in every morning to find new webs.

"Sit down, Tim."

Tim sighed and flopped down into the guest chair.

"First, I appreciate your concern," Jon started.

"Don't get me wrong, you're still a bastard, but no one deserves to be forced into something like this," Tim replied, crossing his arms.

"I would think that my being a bastard would be a point in my favour. If Martin was the one controlling my actions now, don't you think I'd be less of a prat?"

Tim shrugged. "Who can say? I thought I knew what Sasha was like, too, but that didn't help me notice anything when that thing killed her and took her place, did it?"

"No. No, it didn't," Jon admitted. 

Tim looked away from Jon, and an expression that looked like guilt crossed his face. "I shouldn't have left you alone here. Now you're…" Tim shook his head and let out a humourless huff of a laugh. "I guess I have a habit of abandoning people to become hollowed-out puppets, don't I?"

There was a story in those words, Jon could practically taste it. He clenched his teeth against the questions that were crawling their way up his throat, ones that would yank the full statement out of Tim. The situation was bad enough without showing off his own inhumanity. Jon swallowed hard. "Martin hasn't done anything like that to me, Tim," he said, once he had managed to fight the hunger back down.

"And you would know, right?"

Jon sighed. "Well, I can't ask you to believe me or Martin. For one thing, asking for your trust would be incredibly hypocritical. However. We do still need to work together. For now, know that I'm aware that you're opposed to my will being subverted. And that I appreciate it. If I do end up needing help, if I'm in distress, I will speak with you about it, or seek help in some other manner. Until that time, you can assume that I'm content with the current situation involving Martin. ...or you can assume that this whole thing is one more horror that is outside of your power to resolve. Either or." Jon added with a shrug.

"So you're asking me to just drop this."

"Essentially. If you wanted to, I suppose you could go to HR and report me for taking advantage of my subordinate, but given our current situation, I very much doubt that would be successful in removing either Martin or myself from the Archives. "

"Yeah. If stalking didn't get you canned, then why would screwing your assistant?" Tim said bitterly.

"We aren't-- That doesn't really matter. In any case, this matter is outside of your control, and it's best if you just leave it be. I assure you that the… arrangement I have with Martin is fully consensual, if that makes any difference. And I will keep the, er, PDA out of the Archives. Is that satisfactory?"

"Dunno. Can you keep ‘Martin’-” Tim emphasized the name with air quotes. “-out of the Archives, too?”

“He’s still Martin, Tim. And he still works here. If I did have the means to banish my assistants, don’t you think I would have used it by now?”

Tim sighed. “I guess."

"I'll talk to Martin about giving you more space, whenever possible. You may still need to share the Archives on occasion, however. And I'll see what I can do about giving you more work outside of the Archives, in the Library, or conducting more follow-up interviews."

"And the new girl?"

"Melanie? What about her?"

"Are you going to keep her away from Martin as well?"

"Martin isn't dangerous, Tim."

"But you haven't told her about him, have you?"

"I… no. Honestly, I think she'd believe I was trying to prank her, if I tried."

"She doesn't know, then. About how messed up this place is."

"She wouldn't believe me. She still thinks we mostly deal with tall tales from liars and people with overactive imaginations. And, besides, she's stuck here now, too. I don't know how to change that situation yet. Springing everything on her at once is only going to make everything harder on her."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. Better to have her live in blissful ignorance until she gets devoured by an evil book or something, right? It will make everything so much easier for you."

"Tim, I… I know that I played a role in both you and Melanie being trapped here. And I regret it. I am trying to fix it. I don't know how, yet, but I will keep looking for--”

Tim cut him off. “I’m sure. You’ll keep looking and looking and you won’t do a damn thing. Like always. Are we done here?”

“...yes. You can go.”

Tim got out of the chair and yanked open the office door. He paused for a moment, in the doorway. “I… I don’t know how much leeway you have, like this. But you should think about what you actually want. About where the other things you’re feeling might be coming from.”

“I already have. Truly,” Jon replied, but Tim only shook his head and left.

Jon sighed and picked up his phone. ' _It's probably best if you don't come back down to the Archives today._ ' he texted Martin.

Martin's reply arrived a few minutes later. ' _All right. I'm not feeling great, anyway. I'm going home.'_

_'See you in a few hours.'_

* * *

 

When Jon got back to the apartment, he noticed that a duffle bag and rucksack had been packed and put against the wall of the entryway. Odd. Did Martin want to go on some new excursion? Maybe he'd found somewhere to explore that had some clues about how to proceed.

That was a heartening thought. Jon headed into the sitting room hopefully.

The hope died when he saw Martin on the sofa, hunched over a mug of tea. His face was ashen, and the slumped line of his shoulders screamed misery.

Jon suddenly remembered Martin's text about 'not feeling great', and his stomach dropped. He'd thought it was just talking about Tim yelling at him. Was Martin sick? Could he still get sick? Was something else wrong?

“Martin?” Jon started heading towards the sofa.

“What if he’s right?” Martin asked, not looking up from the tea.

Jon blinked. “...what if who’s right? About what?”

“Tim. What if I...  I mean, this whole thing, being with you, it’s something that I’ve wanted for so long, and it’s only happened after I’ve become… this. And it does seem pretty far fetched that, that you've fallen in love with me. I think I might have… might have been influencing you. I… I don't think you actually want this."

Jon snorted. “That’s stupid.”

Martin swallowed, hunching his shoulders more. His grip tightened on the mug, knuckles going white. "I'm really not sure that it is, Jon,” he said softly.

"Well, I am. Do you know why? Because I forgot to eat lunch today."

That made Martin look up, blinking. "You-- what? Jon, I packed you a sandwich and everything."

"I know, but I still forgot about it. Also, the week before last, before the stakeout, I had my laptop with me and stayed up past 5 am researching 20th century medical practices instead of sleeping. I only realized what I had done when the sun started coming up."

"Jon!" Martin said, appalled.

Jon smiled and stepped forward, prying one of Martin's hands off of the mug and lacing their fingers together. "And that's how I know that this, here, is my choice. Because I know you. And if you really were pulling my strings, the first things about me that you would change would be those bad habits of mine. The kissing? That's a long way down your list of priorities."

Martin looked conflicted. "I, I mean, that's true, but I'm not happy that you aren't taking care of yourself."

"Yes, I picked up on that. It's kind of the point. If everything was perfect, then you'd know that something was horribly wrong."

Martin let out a frustrated huff and sank further back against the sofa. "So I can't win. Great."

"You poor thing," Jon drawled, climbing onto the sofa beside Martin. He leaned against him, and Martin tensed for a second before relaxing. Martin set the tea down and curled into Jon, burying his face against Jon's shoulder.

"Jon, I… please tell me, if… if I do anything to make you hate me. Or if you ever want me gone. I don't… I don't ever want to make you feel trapped," he mumbled into Jon's shirt.

"...all right. I will, I promise. In exchange, would you do something for me?" Jon asked, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Martin's ear.

"Of course. Whatever you need."

"Can you believe me when I tell you that I love you?"

"I… okay. Okay, I'll try."

"Good. Because I do, even if I'm rubbish at expressing it," Jon said, and kissed the top of Martin's head. Martin huddled closer to him in response. Jon petted Martin's hair and hummed thoughtfully. "Why don't we take the night off? Watch something together?"

"Don't you have piles of research you want to do?" Martin asked, not lifting his head.

"Yes, but it can wait for one night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants extra content?
> 
> I wrote a scene from Martin's POV, before Jon gets home: <https://mira-eyeteeth.tumblr.com/post/186723725521/an-extra-scene-from-chapter-33-of-patchwork-from>
> 
> I also commissioned more art! A scene from chapter 21: <https://mira-eyeteeth.tumblr.com/post/186723705991/jon-and-martin-heading-back-after-getting-lost-in>


	34. Chapter 34

Martin didn't seem inclined to move any time soon. Jon wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held one of his hands, smoothing his thumb over Martin’s knuckles.They remained curled up on the sofa together for several long minutes, while the remaining tension slowly bled out of Martin.

Finally Martin sighed and lifted his head off Jon's shoulder. "Before we do anything else, we should probably have supper, because apparently you haven't eaten today."

"I had breakfast," Jon protested.

"Probably only because I'm here in the mornings to make sure you have it," Martin muttered.

"I think we should have the ingredients here to make a stir fry," Jon said, changing the subject. "Are you ready to take this to the kitchen?"

Martin slowly breathed in and squeezed Jon's hand before he nodded. "Yeah. I… thank you, for this. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make this all about me."

"There's just the two of us. It's only fair for it to be about you some of the time," Jon replied, getting off the sofa and pulling Martin to his feet. "Now come help me make supper."

"All right,” Martin said, and Jon considered it a victory that it was accompanied by a wan smile.

The world was a nightmare and Jon’s life was rapidly spiralling out of control, but at least he and Martin could chop vegetables while standing next to each other, and fill the apartment with the scent of frying food while colour slowly started to come back into Martin’s face.

After the meal, they settled back on the sofa and Jon let Martin pick something to put on. He honestly wasn’t sure exactly what they were watching, because within a few minutes Martin’s hand had settled over Jon’s shoulder and his thumb was apparently absentmindedly working out several knots of tension lurking there. What little brainpower hadn’t trickled out of Jon’s ears was being devoted to not just entirely melting into Martin’s lap. Whatever story was happening on the screen held absolutely none of Jon’s attention.

Consequently, he had no point of reference to explain why Martin decided to start talking.

"Hmm. I, I don't suppose I could borrow your bed for a little while, could I?" he asked.

"My bed?" Jon repeated, a bit confused by the non-sequitur. Had he missed something Martin said before this? 

"I'd like to have some better leverage for this," Martin explained, sweeping his thumb from Jon's shoulder up the back of his neck. "And it would be easier if, if you were lying down. If you're okay with that?"

"Oh. All right, I suppose that makes sense," Jon said. “After the movie, then, or…?”

Martin shrugged. "If you want. But I don't think you're really paying attention to it."

"Ah. Yes, well. That doesn't mean you can't enjoy it."

"Nah," Martin replied, reaching out to pause the movie. "I'm not really paying attention, either."

"You didn't have to… you could have suggested something else if you didn't want to watch a film together," Jon said.

"I just did."

"Right. Right, well…" Jon reluctantly shrugged Martin's hand off his shoulder as he got up off of the sofa. "Let's give that a try, then. Come on."

Martin followed him into his bedroom. "It, it would probably work best if you take off your shirt and lay down on your stomach? Or you can keep the shirt on, if you're more comfortable with that," Martin said.

Jon smiled and pressed a quick kiss to Martin's cheek. "I am familiar with the procedure, Martin. Is this really the way you want to spend your evening, though?"

“Of course. I’ve, I’ve actually been looking up some stuff online, for massages. I’d like to try it out.”

“All right,” Jon said, tugging off his shirt. He dropped it on the floor and got onto the bed, settling onto his stomach and resting his chin on his folded arms. “Ready when you are.”

The bed dipped under Martin’s weight as he settled on his knees beside Jon. Jon flinched when a hand laid itself over his shoulder blade. Martin immediately snatched the hand away. "Jon? Did I do something wrong?"

"No. Your hands are just cold."

"Oh. Sorry. One second." Jon listened to Martin rub his hands together and blow onto them. Then he tentatively touched Jon's back again. "Better?"

"Yes,” Jon replied, letting his eyes fall shut.

“Okay,” Martin started to slowly stroke a hand down Jon’s spine. “Um… Are there any places I should avoid? I’ll be staying above the belt, obviously, but, but maybe you’re ticklish or something?”

“Hmn. Not really. The armpits, a little,” Jon answered, feeling himself already starting to unwind under Martin’s hands.

"All right." Martin's hand slid back up the length of Jon's spine and he settled both of his hands over Jon's shoulders. His thumbs pressed into the tight muscles near the nape of Jon's neck, coaxing the tension away.

Jon sighed, going limp under the ministrations. Martin spent several minutes working over Jon's shoulders before moving further down, spreading the heels of his hands from one side of Jon's spine out towards his ribs, feeling for tight spots.

Martin’s fingers pressed firmly into a knot of tensed muscle just below Jon’s shoulder blades, and a soft noise escaped from Jon.

Martin paused, the pressure lightening to almost nothing, though he did not remove his hands entirely. "All right?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, fine. I'm fine. Unless I scream or tell you to stop, you can assume that any sounds I make are good ones," Jon replied impatiently, arching his back against Martin's hands.

"Good to know." Martin applied the pressure again, pressing Jon back down to the bed. "It feels like you're just one big mess of tension, Jon."

"This surprises you?" Jon asked muzzily, back to basking in the sensations.

"No, but I kind of hoped otherwise," Martin remarked. He left off the shoulder blades and stroked both hands up the length of Jon's back.

"Mnh," Jon replied intelligently.

"Next, next time I should probably try getting some massage oil for this, it's a little--" Martin's palm must have caught some air between Jon and Martin's skin, because when he pressed his hands down for another sweep up Jon's back, it made a rude little  _ blart _  of noise.

Jon snorted, the laughter making his shoulders jump. "Having a few difficulties?"

"I haven't heard you complaining," Martin muttered.

"I'm not," Jon replied warmly, shifting to free one of his arms and reach out blindly until his hand settled on Martin's knee. "And I didn't say that you should stop, either."

"Of course," Martin heaved a long-suffering sigh and leaned forward, digging the heels of his hands into another knot of tension in Jon's back. He took advantage of the position to press a quick kiss to the nape of Jon's neck.

Jon smiled and squeezed Martin's knee.

Martin settled back on his knees and set to work, careful hands smoothing over Jon's back, seeking out dense and tightened muscles and melting the tension away with clever fingers and gentle palms.

Jon unwound underneath him, mind fraying at the edges. For a little while, the rest of the world disappeared, Jon's thoughts collapsing into this one point of time and space. For one shining moment, everything was soft and warm and safe and--

_ Everyone- everything- was screaming. The assistants were screaming, at least until their cries were cut off, one by one. A choked gurgle as a knife-sharp claw plunged into a man's throat. A shriek that was one with the creak of door hinges, shut off with a snap as the door that was never supposed to have been there closed around the hapless man. The bone-deep rumble of shifting earth drowning out the cry of a woman who was dragged into the cavernous maw that the floor had become. A rush of wind devouring the air that another was using to scream, as the huge hand pulled her through the roof. And the wet, pulsating sounds of viscera that muffled the shout of a man trying to claw his way out of the mound of roiling flesh subsuming him. _

_ The books were screaming as well, or singing, calling down the things that had descended upon the Library. _

_ Leitner wanted to scream, too. Jon could tell. He wanted to scream, and he wanted to run, but Jon's gaze had pinned him in place. He remained at his desk, motionless, helpless, as his assistants died around him. As the other things turned their attentions on him. As the darkness began to creep into the room, as the fire that did not touch the books began to lap at Leitner's flesh, as the earth shuddered and crumbled open beneath him, as the huge hand reached down-- _

Jon jerked awake, his eyes snapping open. After the moment of terrified disorientation faded, Jon realized that he was still in his bedroom. It was dark, the door was closed, and he had a blanket draped over top of him. Martin was gone.

Jon frowned and got up, opening his bedroom door and flicking on the light.

Martin flinched awake from his position on the sofa, throwing up one arm against the sudden light. "Wha- Jon? What's going on? Are you all right?" he asked as he scooted into a sitting position.

"I'm fine. I didn't mean to fall asleep, though," Jon said, making his way out into the sitting room.

"I mean, that's kind of what night is for, Jon," Martin pointed out.

"Arguably. But still. You were… distressed, tonight, and I spent most of it getting a massage and being unconscious. I didn't even say thank you," Jon replied.

Martin shook his head. "The massage thing _was_ my idea, Jon. I didn't do it to get something in return. It was because I wanted to make you happy. And, and if I'm being honest, being able to work out your tension and make you relax enough that you actually fell asleep was pretty great."

"Well, all right. If you say so. But I still… I want to make you happy, too."

Martin smiled and opened his arms, beckoning. Jon climbed onto the sofa and let Martin enfold him in a hug. "I already am happy, Jon," Martin said, tucking his chin over Jon's shoulder. "Just with you being you. But, if you do want to do something nice for me, maybe we could go on a, on a date? I mean, I know we're already together, but I can't really say that we're dating until we actually go on a date, you know? And also, I'd like to. Go out, with you, that is."

"Oh. We haven't actually… We're doing everything backwards, aren't we?" Jon asked.

"I mean, I don't think my life will ever be anywhere near normal again, Jon," Martin replied, pulling back enough that he could look at Jon. He cupped the side of Jon's jaw with one hand and smiled. "But this part of it, at least, isn't bad at all. We don't have to do anything just because it's normal, or, or expected or anything. This is ours, and we should have it be the way we want it."

Jon sighed and leaned into Martin. "All right, I suppose. So. I… Will you go out with me, Martin?"

"I'd love to," Martin replied.

"Good. Just… give me a few days to come up with somewhere to go out to."

Martin chuckled and kissed him. "Sounds good. Go back to bed, Jon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just let me have this fluff for a little while okay, I need this.
> 
> The events that happened at the Library of Jurgen Leitner are detailed in episode 80, The Librarian.


	35. Chapter 35

The next morning, their prospects for the future still didn't seem any brighter, but Jon's back and shoulders felt better than they had in years, and he had come up with a topic for Tim to investigate, away from the Archives. Meanwhile, he and Martin could look further into the mechanics of the Institute to try to uncover some loophole or overlooked aspect to exploit.

Jon was just about to descend the stairs into the Archives when a sound caught his attention and made him pause. He held out a hand, motioning for Martin to stop, and listened.

“Hey , whatever happened to Sasha, anyway? The first one, I mean. I tried asking Diana about her, but she said that the Archives only had the one Sasha, as far as she knew. Though it seems like the second one is gone too, now," Melanie's voice drifted up the stairs.

"You… you remember Sasha?" Tim asked.

"Well, yeah. And also I remember Jon being an asshole when I talked about her. Claimed the new one was the only Sasha you guys had. Did he lose it and fire her in a fit of rage or something?"

"No. No, she… what was she like?"

"What?"

"The first Sasha. What was she like?"

"You'd know her better than me, wouldn't you? I mean, you guys worked together for a while. I just had a good conversation with her, one time."

"Humour me. Please," Tim said.

"... All right. She's smart. Really knew her stuff; we had a long conversation about haunted pubs. Funny, too. And you could tell that she really cares about this sort of thing."

"What did she look like?"

"She… she's got long hair, and… and glasses. I think, I think she's tall? And she... It's…it's weird, it shouldn't be this hard to remember. I know I only met her once, but… I can't remember her face."

"It's all right. More than the rest of us have got."

"What do you mean? What happened to her?" Melanie asked.

"She died."

"She-- what? When? How?"

"Must have been over half a year ago, now. And as for how, well, you wouldn't believe me. But she died here, in the Institute. And that's only one of the many reasons why you should want to get the hell out of this place."

"You're messing with me. If this place is so bad, why don't you just quit?"

"I wish I could. More than anything." 

The conversation seemed to peter out, and Jon took the opportunity to go down the steps. When he got in view of the landing, he noted that both Melanie and Tim had turned to watch him warily, though Tim's gaze immediately shifted to Martin.

"Good… morning," Jon said, the awkwardness of the moment managing to impress itself even on him. "You're done with your work in the Library, Melanie?"

"Yeah."

"Very well. You can help Martin with his tasks, then. As for you, Tim, I'd like to ask you to do some follow-up. There's a name in one of the recent statements that I came across that sounds familiar, but I can't pinpoint where it came from before. I want you to look into the family, if you could. It's Orsinov."

Tim's stare snapped back to Jon immediately. "Orsinov? From Leanne Denikin's statement? You've got more statements about the circus?"

Recognition suddenly buzzed through Jon. "Oh. Yes, that's right, the one with the calliope. We had lost that recording; that's why I couldn't reference it. I'm glad you remembered it. In any case, if you could go and make further inquiries with Ms. Denikin, and see what other sort of information you could find, that would be helpful--"

"What other statement?" Tim interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"What other statement do you have that talks about Orsinov? I want to read it."

"It's…" Damn. It was on one of Gertrude's tapes. How could Jon explain that? "It's around here somewhere. I'll get it to you later."

"No. You want me to look into this, don't you? I'm sure this extra statement has more leads. Let me see it. I'll wait."

"I… on second thought, perhaps I should put you to work on a different subject," Jon tried.

Tim's eyes narrowed. "Why don't you want me getting my hands on that statement, Jon?"

"I don't…" Jon trailed off. Why did he need to conceal this from Tim? Tim hadn't murdered Gertrude, Jon knew that now. Tim was only here because he was trapped here, and Jon was responsible for him. Ignorance hadn't saved Martin, hadn't saved Sasha. Jon took a deep breath. "It's a long story. There's… a lot has happened. Do you want to know everything?"

"Honestly? Not really. But not knowing isn't going to make things any better, either. So, sure. Lay it on me, boss."

"All right. All right, just… I can't tell you here," Jon said. Not where Elias might be watching, listening.

"Why not?"

"It's a long--"

"Story, fine. Got it. Where do you want to take this, then?"

"The tunnels should work."

"You've got another thing coming if you think I'm going into some spooky tunnels with  _ that _ ." Tim replied, jabbing a finger in Martin's direction.

Jon sighed. "All right. Martin will stay in the Archives, then."

"Jon, I don't--"

"It will be fine, Martin. We won't be going far."

Martin made an unhappy noise, but didn't protest further.

Jon looked at Melanie. "You can come as well, if you would like. You're caught up in this mess too. ...I only ask that you wait until the very end before you call me severely mentally unwell."

Melanie shrugged. "Sure. Let's see what sort of trainwreck I'm involved in."

Jon nodded and turned toward the hallway leading to the trap door. He paused and looked back when he felt Martin's hand tap him lightly on the shoulder.

"Stay safe, all right? I'll put some tea on for when you get back," Martin said.

"Okay. Thank you," Jon replied, and left Martin in the Archives. As he pulled open the trap door and gestured Melanie and Tim through it, he glanced over his shoulder again.

A thin, near-invisible thread extended from the place where Martin had touched him, spooling out the door and towards the Archives.

Jon shivered and descended the steps, switching on his torch and closing the door behind him.

"Wow. Hell of a place you got, here. How far do these things go?" Melanie asked.

"Too far," Jon replied.

"We're here. Are you going to stop being a cryptic jackass, now?" Tim asked. "Or are there going to be more hoops to jump through?"

"No. I'll tell you what's going on. You… remember when I reported finding Gertrude's body down here, don't you?" Jon asked.

"I remember hearing about it from office gossip instead of from you, yeah."

"Well, that wasn't… I didn't actually find the body. Martin did, when he got lost in the tunnels after the Prentiss incident. And it wasn't just her body that he found. She was there with hundreds of tapes. Statements, ones that she had recorded. Martin told me about it, after I found him. And he… well, he has his reasons for not wanting to come under scrutiny by the police. So I convinced him to let me make the report. ...after we had taken the tapes for ourselves."

Melanie whistled. "You stole evidence from a murder scene?"

"Yes. The police wouldn't know what to do with the tapes, even if they did care about this case."

"Hey, I get it. The authorities aren't my best friends, either. I'm just impressed you had the guts to do it."

"So that's where this extra statement you were talking about came from?" Tim asked.

"Yes. From what I can tell, Gertrude was looking into something before her death. The stranger, she called it. Apparently it's connected to this Orsinov person."

"Who's connected to the circus."

"I suppose. Why are you so focused on the circus?"

"My brother, he… I've had a run-in with things like that before."

Jon felt that same surge of hunger, and fought back the urge to demand a statement. He swallowed and clenched his hand shut, checking that his first closed around air and not a tape recorder. "I see. Would you… it may be helpful if you would share your experience, if we're investigating this. If… if you decide to. But that's not everything that I need to tell you about."

"There's more? What did you do, rob a bank?" Melanie asked.

"No. But I believe that I know who murdered Gertrude. It was Elias."

Tim heaved a sigh. "Not this again. What did Elias do to get himself on your shit list now? Ask you to stop stalking us again?"

"Tim, I know that I have been paranoid lately--"

"That's putting it lightly."

"But this isn't about that. Gertrude was working together with someone before she died. I spoke with him, and he thinks that it was Elias as well. You know that there's something wrong with the Institute. Elias is the one in charge of it. He's the one who made me Head Archivist. He knows more than he lets on, and controls more than you would think."

"Sure. Right. One question. Who was working with Gertrude?" Tim asked.

"... Jurgen Leitner," Jon replied.

Tim let out a humourless bark of laughter. "Of course it was the guy who's your pet obsession. Did Robert Smirke join in as well? Maybe Jonah Magnus popped in for a spot of tea?"

"I'm being serious, Tim. I even have a recording of my interaction with him. You can listen to it."

"Jurgen Leitner has been missing for twenty years, Jon."

"I know. He's been in the tunnels. I found him because he kept coming into the Archives to look for more of Gertrude's files."

"You really think that  _ Jurgen Leitner _ is living in our basement," Tim said flatly.

"Look, if you don't want to believe me, then don't," Jon said wearily. "I just want you to be careful around Elias. He's dangerous. And… there's one more thing you should know."

"This ought to be good."

"The thing that owns the Institute. The power that stops you from leaving. The Beholding. It's… it's claimed me. I'm changing."

"You… what do you mean by that, Jon?"

"You know what happened to Martin? It's like that. Only, not with spiders. With… with information, and watching, and scrutiny. I'm becoming something like what Elias already is, I suspect."

"Of course. Of course both of my bosses are monsters. Why not? I've already had two monster coworkers, might as well pile them on. Who else is there? Is Rosie a vampire?"

"No, Rosie can talk, so she can't be a vamp--"

"I wasn't actually asking that! So, what, are we down in the tunnels so you can eat our brains or something?" Tim demanded.

"Is that also rhetorical, or--"

"No, it isn't rhetorical! You drag us down into a dark secluded area and then tell us you're becoming a monster, I think I'm within my rights to be concerned you might try to eat us!"

"I don't eat people, Tim. And I don't want to hurt you. I just… I want you to have all the facts. So you can make informed decisions. It's… it's too late for Martin and me, but you and Melanie still have a chance, I hope. And I would like to help you. We would like to help you, if we can. Which will be easiest if you're on board and know what's happening. I don't want to… to lose any more assistants." Jon said.

Tim shook his head. "I don't… any more  _ fantastic _ revelations to drop on us?"

"No, that should be everything."

"Then I want to get out of the spooky tunnels. Now."

"Very well." Jon said, and turned to head back toward the trap door. "Is there anything you need cleared up, Melanie?"

"I didn't have the context to understand half of that. And I'm pretty sure most of it wouldn't make any sense even with context. But what happened to Martin? You said something about spiders?"

"You can ask him yourself," Jon replied, levering open the trap door and stepping back into the Institute. "Tim, I'll get you the two tapes tomorrow, the one that mentioned Orsinov and the one of my... discussion. That should provide you with more details regarding our situation. For now, if you'd like to go out and start hunting down leads today…"

"Already on it," Tim replied, making a beeline for the stairs.

Jon sighed and headed for the Archives proper.

"So you genuinely think this place is cursed. You weren't just giving me a hard time," Melanie said, following after him.

"Cursed isn't exactly the right word for it. But yes."

"I see. All right. I still think you're being incredibly overdramatic and paranoid, but at least it seems like your heart is in the right place."

Jon let out a shaky huff of what threatened to be a bout of hysterical laughter. "Well, given the things I deal with, it might not be there for all that long."

"Literally or metaphorically?"

"Either. Both, probably."

"You're a real ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

"If you want optimism, go talk to Martin," Jon replied wearily.

"I don't know. He didn't seem all that cheery to me. Pretty passive aggressive, really."

"It's probably because you shouted at me. He can be… protective. Give him a chance to warm up to you."

"Hmm. That means you're going to have to stop being an ass for long enough for him to warm up, because otherwise I'm just going to yell at you again."

"Duly noted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tape that Jon needs to give Tim is the one played in MAG 87, Uncanny Valley.


End file.
